


Inquisitive

by Laurelinde



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, References to Addiction, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3247700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurelinde/pseuds/Laurelinde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Lady Iris Helena Trevelyan and Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford and how they met, fell and love and saved the world in spite of a total inability to flirt properly.  Also contains bonus light Tethraghast subplot.</p><p>With thanks to the lovely timebean for proofreading, suggestions and support.</p><p>Disclaimer: Dragon Age, Inquisition, Thedas, all plot, characters, names, creatures, etc. and some lines of dialogue belong to Bioware (excepting names for other members of the Trevelyan family). The in-game timeline of quests has been slightly fudged for story purposes.</p><p>Rated mature as the game is rated mature, but there is no graphic violence, explicit sex, very strong language or anything too traumatic.</p><p>Edit 31/1/15: I have split the story into chapters for easier reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will almost certainly amend this as time goes on. Please be gentle, this is far and away the longest thing I have ever written and the first long-form fiction I have ever shared. I found it to be valuable writing practice, however.
> 
> Please note, my spellings waffle between US and UK English because I am a dual citizen and my spoken and written English are therefore a mishmash. I have tried to stay consistent with UK English but I can't absolutely guarantee it.

Impertinent questions. The strongest association Cullen Rutherford had with Lady Iris Helena Trevelyan was a guileless, lovely face asking him entirely impertinent questions about himself, Templars, the Inquisition and any number of other things.

His first impression of her at their introduction at Haven Chantry's makeshift war room was mild surprise. The mysterious prisoner who had emerged from the Breach with a strange magical mark on her hand – the so-called 'Herald of Andraste' - was, in fact, a polite, unassuming young woman from a traditional Andrastian family. He could vividly recall the smile she bestowed on him during their first conversation, kind, charming and teasing all at once; the smile of one born and bred to put others at ease. Thick straight hair in a warm honey hue was drawn neatly back into a heavy bun, although some strands inevitably escaped to frame her face and lightly freckled nose. Above all, he remembered her eyes: perceptive and full of wisdom, the colour of summer twilight.

On that occasion her smile proved somewhat too effective, in fact, since it managed to dislodge any other thoughts from his head. He stammered helplessly, trying to remember what they had been talking about. Since then, most of their interactions had followed a similar pattern. Once all business talk was out of the way, another question would emerge. _Where are you from? Did you always want to be a Templar? How old were you when you joined the Order? Why did you join the Inquisition? What does lyrium taste like? How did you get the scar on your lip? Has your hair always been curly?_ Most disconcertingly of all, _Did you take vows of celibacy?_ Cullen never felt any sense of mockery from her, however, and found himself answering without hesitation. She was easy to confide in, somehow, and did not abuse his trust.

Iris never asked questions to make him flustered, as much as she might rather enjoy seeing him blush. She asked because she wanted to know, and she knew no other way of finding out. Lord and Lady Trevelyan's third child was well-trained in virtually all aspects of noble life as becoming her status, but her experience with men and romance was dismally minimal. Her parents' energy had been spent on finding suitable matches for the elder children first, and in the meantime Iris had grown to womanhood largely alone except for her siblings and cousins. She had admired one of her sister's suitors, once, but could never make it known, obviously. Rory Penrose, the nice young man she had kissed once at the great winter ball had moved on elsewhere, and married an eldest daughter of a higher-ranking lord. Many of the eligible young men her age had perished in the Blight, or the Mage-Templar war. Now she found herself drawn to the Commander in a way she'd not experienced in some time, and a bit of courtly flirtation did not seem to be enough to express her admiration for this lion of a man.

Whatever she felt, it had crept up on her unawares. She had thought him quite handsome when they met, of course; but handsome men were found easily enough. Less easily found were men who inspired respect and loyalty from all they met, from the raw recruits he trained, to a hardened mercenary like Iron Bull, to his world-weary fellow advisors. She had found herself increasingly drawn to his quiet introspection and the sense of stability she felt around him. It was when she finally saw him in action at Haven, commanding and clever and fearless, and still somehow gentle, that she began to understand.

And then the archdemon came, carrying Corypheus, and it was all far too late.

…

“It's her! She's alive!” Iris' legs sagged under her as the last of her strength ran out. She had walked for days through blinding snow without food or rest, still injured from the fall into the well that had saved her life. Before she could hit the ground, Cullen swept her up and carried her as quickly to the makeshift camp as the snowdrifts would allow.

She felt lighter and smaller than he had imagined, even with her battered leathers soaked through. As her eyes fell closed against his cloaked shoulder, she murmured garbled nonsense: “Cull...ll...lion. Soft furry lion man.” That was all. What he wouldn't give to hear one of those impertinent questions now.

And then the healers had her, and someone was calling for blankets and warm clothes and healing draughts; and the empty space in his arms where she had been felt colder than the icy mountain wind.

In a dark corner of the camp, Cullen prayed to the Maker with fervent gratitude and relief. Gratitude, relief, and guilt; for there was no mistaking the feeling in his heart. She was the Herald of Andraste, and Maker help him, he was in love with her. He'd known since that moment in the Chantry when she quietly accepted her fate with downcast eyes but a steadfast heart, and no expectation of returning.

Hours later, Iris awoke, groggy and sore, to the sound of arguing. The Inquisition was in disarray, and all four of its leaders were quarrelsome. Iris lay for a moment, listening to their discord, trying to collect her thoughts enough to even begin to find a resolution. At the moment, the refugees from Haven had no shelter and little food or supplies. They were in no position to think past surviving the week, let alone managing the threat posed by Corypheus. She sat up.

“Rest.” Mother Giselle's voice said softly.

“They won't stop fighting. I have to...I failed them,” Iris said in a hollow voice. “I should have been more prepared. I couldn't stop him, and now...”

“You bought them that time. They would not have the luxury of arguing if you had not stood against that monster.”

“Everyone thinks I'm chosen, but it's...I haven't come back from the dead, I survived the avalanche. There might not even...what if what Corypheus said is true, that there is no Maker, that the Golden City was empty?”

“And if it is not? Can we truly know that the Maker is not with us, that he does not work through you, and through all of us?”

“Part of me wanted to believe. But that isn't enough. We have to stop Corypheus destroying the world, but how do we do that if we have nothing? We've lost so many good people, and all the infrastructure we had. We need _things_ , and a plan, not just...hoping that somehow the Maker favours me. What good is hope against an army of demons, if we have no food, no soldiers, no weapons, no defences?” Iris leaned wearily against the tent-pole, flooded with despair.

In a quiet, sonorous voice, Mother Giselle began to sing. It was a Chantry tune Iris had heard countless times before, but in this moment, it was as the first music ever sung; ineffable, sacred, transcendental.

“The sky is dark, and hope has fled. Steel your heart, the dawn will come.” As she sang, arguments ceased, and the camp fell silent, enthralled.

Leliana took the lead on the second verse, her clear soprano piercing the cold air. One by one, refugees of all races, ages and positions joined the chorus until the whole camp was united. Soldiers and servants, merchants and mages came forward, bowing and kneeling before Iris with a loyalty and veneration she knew she could never truly deserve. All these people believed, not just in the Maker and Andraste, but in _her_. She could not give up without breaking their spirits as well as her own. And from the corner of her eye, she saw Cullen close his eyes, and add his voice to the song, low and stirring.

Iris' head swam. She had to keep the faith, even if her heart was full of doubt. She must try to be the person, the leader they all needed her to be, or all would be lost. But as the last echoes faded into the night, she stood with tears in her eyes and only one clear thought: _he_ _**sings**_ _, too_.

…

Cullen kept a close eye on Iris on the trek to whatever this mysterious stronghold was that Solas had evidently found. The elven apostate was an odd one, certainly. Cullen felt somewhat uneasy in his presence, although he was personable enough, if somewhat aloof and secretive. Still, there was no doubting his expertise on spirits and the Fade, and he had done nothing to make his motives suspect.

As far as Iris was concerned, he was only mindful of her safety, Cullen told himself. She had been through quite an ordeal at Haven. If she should happen to stumble or weaken, he would be there to carry her, out of dutiful, chivalrous impulses only. He definitely wasn't just craving a physical connection with her again; once it was clear she was not in jeopardy, the feeling of her body in his arms had most certainly not burned itself into his memory and overwritten most of his sensible thought. Definitely.

The Herald seemed to be in good health, however, making steady progress on graceful feet. She moved quickly, climbing rocky outcrops and crusted snowdrifts with ease. Her skilled eyes sought out the safest path for the caravan to travel, stopping to make a note and take a sample of any resources they found along the way. In another life, Cullen thought, she would have made an accomplished scout.

He watched her now, windblown strands of hair floating free, her lips drawn into a line as she surveyed the horizon. The sun was behind her, etching her in light; her leather armour snug against shapely legs, taut muscles and tapering waist. Her raiment was humble and worn, and her cheeks and nose reddened from the crisp air, but to him she was a celestial vision. He checked a wholly un-Cullen-like dreamy sigh. Her gaze turned, focusing now on the convoy and catching sight of him. At that precise moment he floundered into a deep drift and a handful of snow slid into his boot, causing him to yelp at the sudden shock of cold. As such, he failed to notice the way her face changed when she saw him, the softening of her features and the sharp intake of breath.

For Iris was in no better state than he, even burdened as she was with the responsibility of securing a place of safety for everyone who had escaped Haven. Romance had been the last thing she expected when she woke from the Conclave in a makeshift prison cell, bewildered and blank and wracked with excruciating pain from the mark on her hand. Iris had not been in love in many years, but it seemed her heart had a perverse sense of timing. Each night as the expedition halted, she would watch the Commander with a quiet yearning. In the hush of darkness, she replayed his voice in her head, singing softly and sweetly and all for her, until she drifted asleep on the frozen ground dreaming of strong arms, warm hands and soft fur.


	2. Chapter 2

Skyhold. How such an imposing structure had managed to remain almost completely unknown and uncharted was baffling. The Inquisition had arrived at the fortress two weeks earlier, and Iris and her team were still discovering new elements to the place. The citadel and outbuildings needed a daunting amount of repair, but the foundations seemed solid, built directly into the mountain rock. A makeshift Chantry was erected in the garden court, and construction began on stables, barracks, medical facilities and a tavern. In the following days, merchants, smiths and pilgrims had already begun to arrive. Iris and her advisors met with Gatsi, a dwarven mason who would be overseeing architectural improvements, to draw up plans for key structural reinforcements and a tower for the mages. The key members of the Inquisition had begun settling into quarters of their own choosing, although Iris had been assigned to the largest and most lavish chamber in the keep almost as a matter of course, against her own protestations.

Almost immediately on reaching Skyhold, Iris had unanimously been named Inquisitor. Her success in halting the expansion of the Breach, her equity in dealing with the mages, and the wisdom and charity she had shown in all her efforts had earned her the loyalty of her friends and followers, and respect even from some of her opponents in the Chantry. Her willingness to sacrifice herself at Haven, and her miraculous escape, had cemented the decision. Iris herself had been very clear in not claiming to be chosen of Andraste or the Maker, and was reluctant to take or use the title of Herald. This did not deter many of her followers, however, for whom there seemed no explanation for her achievements short of divine endorsement.

Cullen mused on this as he stood at his makeshift command post in the courtyard near the gate, feeling rather cross with himself. Iris – the Inquisitor, rather - was an extraordinary woman, and very possibly blessed; but he _would_ pick the absolute worst possible moment to develop romantic feelings for someone, he thought. He already had more than enough on his plate, between managing the military strategy and equipment for all of the Inquisition's troops, training the constant influx of new recruits, and dealing with his own personal troubles. The last thing he needed was to waste precious time idly wondering what it would feel like to run his fingers through that shiny hair, or wistfully considering whether she could ever care for a man as damaged as he was. Try as he might, though, he could not seem to stop his heart beating that little bit faster when he saw her, or his mind painting pictures of her on the back of his eyelids when he tried to sleep. In truth, perhaps, he didn't try all that hard, welcoming the unfamiliar thrill as much as he feared it.

He saw her walking towards him now, arm full of documents. Snapping an order to one of his soldiers, a well-meaning but sometimes obtuse young man called Jim, Cullen turned to the Inquisitor to address her enquiries regarding the status of the Inquisition's army. As always, she spoke to him as a peer, a colleague, even a friend, never treating him as a subordinate, or with the sneering smugness so many other nobles seemed to employ when dealing with those of humbler birth than they. Iris was not like any other noble Cullen could recall meeting.

Once the pertinent information had been relayed, there was a pause, the Inquisitor seeming hesitant to leave. Cullen fruitlessly tried to swallow the lump in his throat which had been there perpetually since Haven. When the Inquisitor looked at him with those great eyes of hers, it was though she could see straight through to his very soul.

Little did he know that the lady in question felt more like a hapless doe in the sights of a predator at that moment. Whenever she was around Cullen, Iris felt as though she had swallowed a thousand agitated moths. Her insides fluttered in the most unsettling fashion, and her mouth had a way of saying things she wasn't strictly intending it to. _Did you just ask him if he ever slept?!_ she shouted at herself internally. This was unfortunate, since the images now springing to Iris' mind of an unclad Cullen sprawled in bed – he _must_ take the armour off sometime, surely – were thoroughly unsuited to a professional conversation.

“I'm relieved that you, that so many made it,” Iris said at last. Perhaps he hadn't noticed the slip.

“As am I.” Cullen's eyes were full of tenderness, but his expression was sad. He looked down.

Iris started to draw away, not wishing to intrude on what she perceived as his sorrow over the loss of Haven. Cullen's voice brought her up short.

“You stayed behind. You could have -”

Just six little words; but words spoken in a voice of such low intensity as she had never heard him use. Her heart stirred, and she could not make a sound. As he vowed not to let her be so endangered again, the last bit of her resistance broke, and she threw herself completely, utterly, knowingly in love, with her eyes wide open.

So absorbed was Iris as she moved off with no particular direction in mind that she could have screamed when another voice sounded close by in her ear.

“You like him.”

Iris managed not to squeak. Cole's habit of appearing and disappearing at will was wildly disconcerting, not to mention the fact that he could evidently read her mind. She hardly knew what to make of the spirit, human enough to have willed himself a body, to be tangible – and lethal – but still understanding so little about what it meant to truly be human, what the human experience entailed. Spirits were dangerous, she knew, although they did not seem to always be. Cole definitely wasn't a demon, he did not seem inclined to possess anyone, and he displayed a sense of compassion that Iris saw no sense in turning away. To her mind, it was a virtue of which the world could always use more, no matter how unlikely its source.

“What?”

“The Commander. You like him.”

Iris looked around wildly in case anyone, particularly Cullen, overheard.

“He's a, a, very nice man,” she spluttered.

“He is trying to be. But, sad. He likes you too.”

Iris was beet red now. “What?”

“Peaceful evenings at the lake, watching the sky turn colours. Like your eyes. Before everything hurt. When you smile, he forgets it for a while.”

Iris turned to watch Cullen. He was giving orders to soldiers and suppliers in his customary brusque, efficient manner, the ever-present furrow visible on his brow. She knew he had been in Kirkwall when the Chantry had been destroyed, and a Rite of Annulment called; and when the Ferelden Circle fell before that. What had happened to him?

“Has he -” Iris turned back, but Cole was gone; or nowhere to be found, at least. Whatever else she might have asked him, it would have to wait. She looked towards Cullen again. Could he have feelings for her? She thought it might be possible, the way he looked at her sometimes, but she had been mistaken before. How could -

He was turning around. Not wishing to be caught staring, Iris scuttled away towards the stables, narrowly avoiding walking into a dense shrubbery; and there was no more talk of the Commander, or his feelings about her eyes, at least today.

…

Almost as soon as the Inquisition had reached Skyhold, Varric had reached out to “an old friend,” as he put it; someone who had encountered Corypheus before, and could hopefully provide some more information on the fiendish darkspawn who had attacked Haven. As Iris had suspected, his friend turned out to be none other than Philippa Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall – and the reason he'd been brought to Cassandra's attention in the first place.

Near the start of the Mage-Templar war, the Seeker had, effectively, arrested Varric, interrogated him, demanding to be told about the events in Kirkwall in the years leading up to and following the destruction of the cathedral and the death of Grand Cleric Elthina there. As the Left and Right Hands of the Divine, Cassandra and Leliana had sought out prominent figures in southern Thedas - namely, the Champion of Kirkwall and the Hero of Ferelden - hoping to gain their help in leading the Inquisition and resolving the conflict between mages and the Chantry. Varric had spun tales of Hawke's deeds (which needed little embellishment, in fact), but mulishly insisted that he had no means of contacting her further. She had gone into hiding to protect her friends, he said.

This had been, in part, a lie. Fearing an Exalted March on Kirkwall for her actions, and overwhelmed by the grief and calamity that had dogged her life there, Hawke and her partner, Fenris, had left Kirkwall, as Varric had said. She and her family would never be safe so long as she was held up as a figurehead for the mage rebellion, despite not being a mage herself, and having personally executed the apostate responsible for the explosion that killed the Grand Cleric. Hawke's priority had been to avoid further bloodshed, and keeping her distance from those she loved seemed the best way to achieve that, although her stubborn paramour refused to leave her side for any length of time.

Varric, however, still maintained covert correspondence with Hawke, a fact he had concealed. As such, he was able to arrange for Hawke to meet the Inquisitor at Skyhold to discuss Corypheus, and the Inquisition's plans for defeating him.

Hawke's news was troubling. She and Varric had found Corypheus in a Grey Warden prison where he had been sealed since the time of the first Blight. After speaking to him, Hawke had concluded that he Corypheus was indeed one of the Tevinter magisters – specifically, a high priest of Dumat – who entered the Fade to gain the power of godhood from the Golden City.

The Wardens kept their distance from him, as he possessed the ability to affect their minds. With him freed, any Grey Warden in Thedas was at risk of his manipulation. Worse, Hawke had fought Corypheus and apparently killed him; yet he had returned. Neither the Champion nor Varric had answers for how he might have managed such a feat. Hawke and Iris agreed to seek out a contact of Hawke's, a man called Stroud, who had been investigating the red lyrium and monitoring signs of corruption among the Wardens.

Iris returned from her meeting with Stroud bearing even more ill tidings: all the Grey Wardens in Orlais were experiencing the Calling, as though they were near death. In response, Warden-Commander Clarel had begun preparing a blood magic rite to summon an army of demons to attack the darkspawn deep underground and end future Blights once and for all. As she went to update Cassandra and discuss the best plan of action, she heard a violent altercation in progress.

Running up the stairs to Cassandra's quarters, Iris found the Seeker throwing punches and invective at Varric. Iris intervened, separating the two, although Cassandra continued to berate the rogue for his lies, her eyes blazing and her face contorted with rage. “If we had found Hawke, if Hawke had agreed to lead the Inquisition, she would have been at the Conclave. If anyone could have saved Most Holy...” Cassandra's voice broke. “How can we trust him if he will not give the Inquisition all he can?”

“You can't change the past, Cassandra. It isn't Varric's fault, what happened there. Nor yours.” She turned to the dwarf. “But Varric, you should not keep anything more from us, either.”

Varric grumbled, but agreed, and left the two women to speak.

“If only I could have convinced him, made him understand why Hawke was so important. Perhaps he would have listened then, trusted us; trusted me.” The Seeker slumped onto a chair.

“I'm not sure it would have mattered. The way Varric talks about Hawke, the way he looks at her...I think...well, I think he would gladly die if he thought it would spare her from even another scratch.”

Cassandra sighed. “It is not Varric I am truly angry at. I believed his lies and gave up looking for Hawke. I interrogated him, made him believe we were his enemy, and Hawke's. I failed to make him understand, I failed to stop the war, and I failed to protect Most Holy. I am a fool.”

Cassandra was always her own worst critic, but now she sounded on the verge of tears. The Seeker had begun as Iris' jailer, but it had not taken long for them to develop mutual respect and admiration. Iris was in awe of Cassandra's strength of purpose and character, seeing her as almost another elder sister. “You are too hard on yourself.”

“Not hard enough, I think.”

“Cassandra...that isn't true at all. You can't expect perfection from yourself. You have done everything in your power to make the Inquisition work, and none of us would be here if it weren't for you. None of this would have been possible without you.”

The Seeker fought to catch her breath. “Inquisitor, you should know...it is true we looked for others to lead the Inquisition. I hope you do not take that as a sign of regret on my part. You are not what I would have expected the Inquisitor to be, but...I am not sorry that the Maker brought you to us, instead. Varric is probably right: if Hawke had been at the Conclave, she would likely have died as well. Then we would know even less about Corypheus than we do now.”

“It's all right, Cassandra. It will be all right.” The news about the Grey Wardens could wait for another day when the Seeker was feeling less pessimistic. Iris started for the stairs.

“I should thank you for stopping me earlier, Inquisitor. Varric is devious, and I still don't know if he truly believes in the Inquisition or if he is simply trying to protect his friend. But I should not have attacked him. I'm afraid I have never been very good at controlling my temper.”

“Don't worry about Varric. I expect he has had much worse in his time. Possibly even from Hawke,” she added, reflecting on what she had recently observed of the Champion's sometimes cutting tongue. In the time they had spent together, Hawke had demonstrated a capacity for infinite patience and loyalty with those she respected, but she was not one to suffer fools gladly. The Inquisitor was relieved to see her remark bring the first hint of a sardonic smile to her friend's face.

Leaving Cassandra to work out her anger on a practice dummy, Iris went to check on Varric. “You can come out now, Varric,” she said as she entered the section of the keep he had claimed as his own. “She's calmed down.”

Varric snorted glumly. “Forgive me if I keep a wide berth from the Seeker for awhile.”

“She's more angry at herself than at you, you know.”

“Are you sure about that? Because it was my head she was aiming for.”

“I know. She is cross with you, but mostly, she's just disappointed in herself, that things didn't turn out the way she had hoped.”

“Yeah, well, her standards are too damn high.”

“I know. I think she does, too, deep down. But her heart is in the right place.”

Varric shook his head. “Look, for whatever it's worth, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Corypheus sooner. We honestly thought he was dead! He looked pretty damn dead, I can tell you. If I'd thought it was important...”

“I know, Varric. You like to pretend you don't care about anything, but your heart is in the right place, too.”

He shrugged. “I know this is important. And I know I need to do better. I'm sorry.”

“Maybe it's not me you should be apologising to, Varric. Why don't you tell all this to Cassandra?”

He sighed. “All right, all right.” From the court below came the clang of metal on metal, and an exclamation of “Damn, Seeker! That was a hell of a hit!” from the Iron Bull.

Varric turned back to Iris. “Tomorrow. I'll apologise tomorrow.”

An idea occurred to Iris. She had recently discovered that the Seeker was a secret aficionado of Varric's romance serials. He'd sworn off writing them for the time being, but if she could prevail upon him to produce the next novel for Cassandra, she might be more willing to overlook his mendacity on the matter of Hawke's whereabouts.

“Tomorrow's fine. And there is one other thing you might consider...”

It took Iris some time to convince him that she was even telling the truth about Cassandra's reading habits, let alone to continue working on his weakest fiction. At last, though, her best skills of persuasion and a promise to let him be the one to give Cassandra the book swayed him, and Iris left him chortling to himself with wicked glee.


	3. Chapter 3

Iris walked through Skyhold, musing on her recent discussion with Dorian. Iris could never have imagined a Tevinter magister becoming one of her closest friends, but Dorian had a way of defying expectations. She had liked him from the moment she met him, in spite of the worrying situation with the rebel mages. Their experience in the apocalyptic future they had witnessed via the time-magic portal had solidified this initial bond. By the time Mother Giselle had approached her with a covert message from Dorian's estranged parents, seeking to arrange a surprise meeting with their son, Iris already found it unthinkable not to inform him.

They had recently returned from Redcliffe, where the meeting had involved not a retainer, but Dorian's father in person. Their reunion was fraught; Dorian still harboured great anger at his father. Rightly so, in Iris' estimation, as he had apparently attempted to use blood magic to change his son's nature, to make him prefer the romantic interest of women in order to produce an heir to the Pavus family line. Iris had felt she was intruding horribly on Dorian's personal business, but he had asked her to stay.

In the end, the meeting had not gone as badly as it might have. There was no wholehearted reconciliation, but the elder Pavus had expressed sincere regret for his actions in the past. It was clear that despite their differences, the man truly missed his son. For Iris, who could not imagine her life without the support (and sometimes meddling) of her family, the possibility of Dorian finding some kind of peace with his parents was a worthwhile one. In their last conversation, Dorian had confided that he, too, considered Iris to be a friend, which touched the Inquisitor greatly.

She arrived at Cullen's new office in one of the towers on the outer wall. Iris had suggested he make quarters in the main keep, since the tower's roof still required patching and the loft where he slept was only accessible by a ladder. But Cullen demurred, wishing to be nearer the gate and the troops camping outside Skyhold, and unaccustomed to anything more than austere accommodations for himself. He was alone when she entered, and in place of the reports she expected to see on his desk was a small wooden box painted with an image of Andraste.

“Inquisitor. There's something I feel I should...there's something I must tell you.”

He looked so worried, even frightened. “Of course. I – you can tell me anything,” she said, any words feeling foolish and insufficient.

“I – thank you. A Templar's abilities are granted by drinking lyrium. You probably already know that. Unfortunately, it...controls us, as well. Without lyrium, Templars can go mad. Some even die.” He paused, looking down at a box of lyrium paraphernalia on his desk.

“Are our Templars in danger? I thought we had arranged for deliveries from Orzammar?”

“No, it's not that. We have a reliable source of lyrium for any of our Templars.” His eyes closed. “But I no longer take it.”

After the abuses at the Kirkwall circle, the corruption of Knight-Commander Meredith by red lyrium and the resulting pandemonium of the rebellion, Cullen had determined to leave the Order as soon as it was possible. He had remained in Kirkwall for a few years, trying to restore order and sanity with any remaining uncorrupted Templars and mages who had survived the battles there. As soon as Cassandra had recruited him into the Inquisition, however, he took the opportunity to wean himself off the lyrium leash held for so long by the Chantry and the Order. The Inquisition was a chance for Cullen to rebuild his life on his own terms and to leave the past behind him.

Iris' throat closed, terrified by the thought that she could lose him at any moment, but full of sympathy for his decision, and his pain. _You asked him what it tasted like. Twit!,_ she reproached herself. He saw the concern in her eyes.

“I have asked Cassandra to, to watch me.” Should he exhibit any signs of trouble or prove incapable to continue in his post, the Seeker was to relieve him of his duties. In the meantime, the pain was manageable; the price was a small one, for his freedom.

“I will not allow this to risk the Inquisition. My duties will always be my first priority. I suppose I ought to have told you sooner, but...” It could not have been easy for him to confess something so personal.

“Thank you for telling me, Commander,” she said earnestly. “You...please know you have my full support in this. If there is anything I can do, you need only ask.”

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely grateful, relieved that she was not angry with him for hiding his condition, nor insistent that he begin taking it again to eliminate the risk to their cause. “I will give my best to the Inquisition. You have my word.”

As she opened the door, Iris spoke in a quiet voice. “I think you are very brave.” Without looking at him, and before he could respond, she had scurried away down the stairs, kicking herself all the way for her inappropriate sentimentality.

Cullen did not share her feeling. As he put away his lyrium toolkit, he marvelled at her words and her reaction. She supported his decision. She thought he was courageous to try. She had seemed afraid, but that he was suffering, not for his capability. Cullen's battle with lyrium, the chance he could lose himself or his life, was one of the reasons he had given himself for keeping his distance from Iris, or any other woman. But as she had done so many times already, Iris had given him hope once again.

…

It was a fine, clear afternoon as Iris made her way into the garden at Skyhold. She had always loved gardens for their tranquillity and for the sense of natural stability that only came from spending time among carefully nurtured plants. Here, an inner courtyard had been cultivated with useful plants for the herbalists and some hardy but attractive flowers, and space made for quiet contemplation.

Iris tended to a young sprout, a new variety of herb she'd recently found in the Fallow Mire. In the corner of her eye she saw Cullen and Dorian sat at a small table playing chess. Their body language suggested it was an even match, both men putting their full efforts into their tactics, although their expressions indicated they may be trading some light-hearted barbs as well. Iris could not help but smile. Cullen's dedication and indefatigable work ethic left him prone to over-taxing himself, always finding one more thing that needed to be done. She was glad to see him taking some well-earned time to relax and socialise.

With her own work completed, she approached them to observe the match. Cullen seemed startled to see her, but soon redirected his thoughts to the game. In spite of her distraction, Cullen prevailed, checkmating Dorian with an air of triumph.

Slightly nettled at having lost the match, Dorian was happy to allow the Inquisitor to take his place in the next game. He adjourned to another part of the garden with a book, remaining near enough to watch and overhear the two in conversation as they played. Never had he seen such awkward flirting.

Iris loved that she could be with Cullen and feel no pressure to fill the space with meaningless conversation, but she also loved seeing him open up and speak, looking more alive and more human than he did standing seriously at his desk or barking commands at soldiers. Now he was wriggling around animatedly in his chair like an over-excited little boy, and she found it completely delightful.

As he told her about his siblings and his family, Iris struggled to focus on the game instead of his smile, his voice, his hands, his hair. Iris rather envied Cullen his signature curls. Where her sister had inherited their mother's dark, wavy tresses, not unlike Josephine's, Iris had her father's gingery-blond hair. At every social function, her mother and Emma would wear exquisite, elaborately curled hairstyles, while Iris' hair refused to do anything but hang straight down and fall into her eyes. And then when she was on the verge of giving up, her mother would come and sit beside her, and smile. “My golden Iris,” she would say tenderly, weaving flowers into her daughter's glossy locks with small, sparkling pins; and her disappointment was forgotten for another night.

What was Cullen saying now? Iris snapped back to the present. They'd never spoken so long about anything other than Inquisition business. He appreciated the distraction, he said. Capturing one of his pawns, she blurted out something about spending more time together with him. Unnoticed behind her, Dorian stifled a guffaw, but Iris was pleased to see that Cullen agreed, and eagerly.

“I'd like that, too,” she said.

“You said that already.” There was that low voice again, and there went the butterflies.

Was...was this wooing? Was this what it was like to be wooed? Iris felt that somehow she ought to know instinctively, but she was not at all sure. In any case, she was too preoccupied to hear the mirthful snorting emanating from behind the hydrangeas.

A few more moves and the game was over, Cullen conceding defeat, to Iris' surprise. They parted with starry eyes and a pledge to meet for further matches regularly in the future.

Replaying the game in her mind, Iris was almost certain he had deliberately underplayed. He clearly had more experience playing than she did, and her brain was too fogged to devote her full attention to any strategy. Nonetheless, she left the garden with the distinct feeling that she had, somehow, definitely won.

“So, you have an eye for strapping young Templars, I see,” Dorian said, appearing at her elbow.

“What?”, Iris said, trying and failing not to blush.

“Oh, nothing. Just something I find rather adorable about you,” he teased. “You know he let you win, don't you?”

Iris continued blushing. “Were you...have you been over there watching this whole time?”

“Our Commander is a lucky man, it seems.” Dorian supposed he ought to distrust Cullen, given his history as a Templar. Everything he had learned about the man, however, had convinced him that the Commander was fundamentally decent, if as inept at flirtation as the Inquisitor was in his presence. “However will you break the news about us to him, my dear?”

Iris tilted her head to smirk at her friend. “You know perfectly well there's nothing to tell. About you _or_ him!”

“Yes, I can see the two of you will need a bit of help if you are ever to get past playing terrible games of chess.”

“Dorian!”, she reprimanded him with a playful shove.

Cullen watched them go with mixed emotions. He was pleased that Iris had bonded with Dorian, that she had good people to look after her as she faced danger abroad. Nonetheless, he found himself envying the mage for the easy familiarity he shared with the Inquisitor. He certainly didn't have the man's knack for witty repartee, and for bringing out that candid smile from Iris. Still, she'd been quick enough to agree to play chess with him, and he was nearly positive that, as unlikely as it may be, they had been flirting.

All in all, he considered as he returned to his office, it had been a very good day.

…

A few weeks later came a day that was much less positive. Iris had gone to Cullen's office to find that the Commander was not there as expected. Instead she found him with Cassandra in the smithy, visibly upset. She could hear them arguing before she even opened the door, but they fell silent as she entered. He left with his head bowed, saying only, “Forgive me.”

Cassandra apprised the Inquisitor of the situation. Cullen's withdrawal symptoms were more acute than usual, relentlessly dogging him. Fearing he could not contribute to the Inquisition to the required standard, he had asked the Seeker to recommend he be replaced as military advisor, although Cassandra had refused. Iris' gut twisted with grief. His pain and his shame had been all too obvious.

“You don't think...I supported his decision, when he told me. I still do. You don't think he should go, do you? Is he...is he suffering so much? Is he, can he....” She groped for words.

“As I told him, I do not believe it is necessary to replace him. He is not going mad, and though he suffers, he has survived for so long now without the lyrium. It has been months. I know he can do this. He has come so far. If we allow him to simply give up now, he will lose this chance to prove to himself that he need no longer be bound to the Order. I fear it would destroy him.”

Iris trusted Cassandra almost implicitly when it came to doing what was best for the Inquisition. After all, it was the Seeker who had been the driving force in its foundation. Still, her concern for the Commander as a person and as a friend was clear. Despite her dismay, Iris knew that Cassandra's advice would be sound, both for their cause and Cullen's well-being.

“What do we do? How can I help?”

“Talk to him. If anyone can convince him this is the right thing for him, that this is where he belongs, it is you. Your belief in him will mean more than anyone else's.” Too distraught to be flustered by the idea, Iris followed Cullen back to his office.

She found him behind his desk, glaring at his lyrium kit with contempt. Not seeing her enter, he hurled the box at the wall with a growl of frustration, narrowly missing the Inquisitor.

“Maker's Breath! I didn't...”

“I'm sorry, I should have knocked.” She moved closer, hesitantly. “Cullen, are you all right?” Iris chided herself again. “I mean, of course you're not, but...will you be?” She had never called him by his name alone, rather than his title, but in this moment it hardly mattered.

“Yes. ...No. I don't know.” His shoulders sagged.

At last he told her the truth, the full truth about what had happened at the Ferelden circle. The uprising, the abominations, the death of his friends; his torture. Kirkwall was meant to be a second chance for Cullen, but instead it ended in more unrest, more death, and a total loss of trust in his Knight-Commander. What few good experiences he may have had as a Templar, they were overwhelmed by misery and disillusionment.

“I understand,” she said gently.

He grew more agitated, as though her sympathy hurt him. “You should be questioning me! My personal decisions are putting the Inquisition at risk! How can I afford to...I should be taking it!” He staggered forward, driving his fist into the bookcase in anger and agony.

“Forget the Inquisition for a moment. I care about what _you_ want. Do you want to take lyrium again, truly?”, she inquired gently. _And right now I would almost let Corypheus take the world if it meant I could save you from this pain.  Almost._

“No,” he said at last. “But these memories haunt me. This pain...what if...what if I cannot endure it?” His voice was a harsh whisper.

He looked up when he felt her hand, soft on his shoulder. She would not deny him some small comfort when he so clearly needed it. “You can.” Spoken without condescension or pity, only faith.

After a long moment his posture relaxed slightly. “All right,” he said shakily.

“Rest now, Commander. Cassandra and I can manage your duties for awhile.” He nodded brokenly.

Striding to the barracks, Iris addressed the soldiers with new orders. “The Commander is indisposed at present. You will report to me for the time being.”

“Yes, your worship.”

With that, she returned to work. She would need to be efficient and prioritise well if she were to manage Cullen's tasks as well as her own.

When all the guard reports had been turned in and Skyhold began to fall quiet for the night, Iris finally hauled herself wearily up the ladder to check on Cullen. She was relieved to see he was asleep, although in his nightmares he had twisted himself and his bedding into contortions. He shivered slightly in his sleep. Ever so gently so as not to wake him, she smoothed out the linens and pulled another blanket around his shoulders. She drew a soft hand across his temple, desperate to soothe the lines of anguish creasing his face. Perhaps she shouldn't be here; perhaps it was wrong to cosset him so. In spite of his brusqueness, he took such care with his soldiers, and with her; her kind heart would not allow her to do less for him.

She longed to stay and watch over him, but she didn't know if he would want her there when he woke. Reluctantly she dragged herself away, with sleep threatening to claim her. She met Cassandra on the stairs.

“How is he?”

“As well as he can be, I think. I've done what I can of his work for the evening. I will try to check on him again tomorrow, if he...”

“So he has not taken it?” Iris shook her head. “And he will stay?”

“I think so,” the Inquisitor said at last. “I – we need him. I think perhaps we ought to stay in Skyhold for a few days, at least.”

“I agree. Whatever time we might lose in the field, we would lose far more if we lost the Commander.”

Cassandra saw the concern and weariness hanging on the other woman like heavy chains. “You must rest now, Inquisitor. I will look after him.”

Iris nodded, descending the stairs. She paused. “Cassandra? Thank you.”

Cassandra inclined her head slightly. “Good night, Inquisitor.”

…

When Iris awoke the next morning, she left her quarters seeking news on Cullen's condition before bothering to eat or check for early messages. As she left the main keep, she caught sight of the Commander on the ramparts. He was dressed in his armour and appeared calm, standing straight and regarding the valley below. Iris climbed the stairs and approached him tentatively, not wishing to disturb him. She saw him close his eyes and take a deep breath.

“Cullen?”

He turned to her. “Are you...how are you?”

“Inquisitor. I...wanted to thank you for coming to see me yesterday. And, to apologise for...for how I spoke to you. I should not have pushed myself so hard. Sometimes, I feel as though I am...back at the Circle. It was -”

Iris stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Cullen, you don't need to apologise to me. You've done nothing wrong. I am just glad you're all right. You are feeling better, aren't you?”, she asked, suddenly worried again.

He gave a sigh of nervous relief. “Yes.” He looked down. “I've never told anyone about what happened at the Circle. I'm not proud of what I became, after that.”

“For what it's worth, I think you are a good man, Cullen. I like the person you are now,” Iris offered.

“Truly? I...that...means a great deal to me, Inquisitor. Thank you.” His look spoke volumes. “What about you? You have your own troubles,” he said tenderly.

It was only fair to answer his frankness with her own. “Truthfully? I'm terrified, so much of the time.” She turned to the wall, looking out at the rows of tents below, each one marking another young man or woman whose life was pledged to their cause. “I never would have imagined having so many people relying on me, having so much pressure to succeed. After what happened at Haven...Corypheus is still out there somewhere. What if I'm not ready? What if I can't...”

He laid a hand gently on hers. “You have done great things, Inquisitor. We have all come so far. When Corypheus strikes again, we will be ready; and you will not be alone.” Releasing her hand, he brought his arm to his chest in a gesture of service and salute. “If there is anything I can do, you have but to ask.”

Iris nodded in acknowledgement. “Thank you.” With that, Cullen took his leave, full of renewed commitment to serving the Inquisition, and the Inquisitor, as best he could.


	4. Chapter 4

Iris' next few weeks were not markedly different to those preceding them, in many respects. Her work was varied and seemingly interminable, with artifacts to gather, terrain to survey, and pockets of hostile Venatori and red Templars to root out all across southern Thedas, and a constant stream of visiting dignitaries, suppliers and new allies to meet at Skyhold. Nevertheless, she was increasingly preoccupied. Her feelings for Cullen had progressed from an unsophisticated infatuation with what he might be, to a deep and honest affection. She was conscious of his faults and vulnerabilities, but still cared so greatly for him. Yearning and worry for him pervaded more and more of her thoughts.

It wasn't so bad when she was away from Skyhold, Iris thought. There was enough to see and do, enough people needing help, enough samples of plants and ore and leather to gather, that she fell asleep quickly even on a bedroll in a shared tent. She still thought about him, but it was less immediate, less all-consuming.

Back at the fortress it was a different matter. She seemed constantly on edge, half-expecting to bump into him at any moment. Even so, she was rarely prepared when their paths did cross, and she was once again confronted by his undeniable handsomeness; his confident, leonine bearing, sometimes tinged with sorrow; that subtle scent of metal, leather and masculinity that followed in his wake.

Meeting him in close quarters was even worse. She often had to busy herself with markers at the war table to avoid gazing longingly at his scar while the council was in session. The mark managed not to detract from his good looks at all, merely to enhance the appeal of his mouth. Her imagination often ran away with her if she stopped concentrating on the map for even a few moments. Even the way he said “Inquisitor” to acknowledge her instructions made the fluttering in her belly increase – somehow, she always heard “quivering” in the word somewhere. Nor did her chess-playing improve noticeably during any of their occasional matches, although Iris enjoyed them far more for the uninterrupted conversation than the games themselves.

Weeks turned to months, and she seemed in ever more danger of reverting to a lovestruck schoolgirl. Finally, one night in her quarters when she had jumped for what felt like the hundredth time that day, thinking she heard his voice nearby on the wind, she came to a decision. She couldn't carry on like this; she would have to speak to him. _You are a grown woman. You are nearly thirty. Emma already had two children by now. Pull yourself together._

Maker help her. Lying in bed in the dark, she whispered quietly to her pillow that perhaps it might be more painless to just go and fight Corypheus and a fleet of dragons.

…

The next morning dawned clear. Iris woke with her heart in her throat and moved through her regular duties with mechanical abstraction. She deliberately avoided going near any of her friends who knew her well, lest they suss her state of mind and break what little nerve she had rallied. As the afternoon wore on, a lull fell on Skyhold, and she could procrastinate no longer. It was time. One last splash of cold water on her face; one last nibble of mint leaves to sweeten her breath; one last fruitless attempt to do something fetching with her hair. Iris closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and marched in the direction of Cullen's office.

Several abortive attempts later, Iris managed to get up all the stairs and stand frozen outside his door, trying not to meet the eye of any passing guards or soldiers. She heard voices behind her, and realised that someone was coming up the steps behind her. She had to act now.

She turned the handle with a sweaty palm and walked into the room. Blessedly, miraculously, the only soldier present was leaving. Cullen was alone.

“Commander,” she began, more squeakily than intended.

“Inquisitor!” He seemed startled, if not unhappy, to see her. “How can I -”

“I-I need to speak with you. Alone,” she added.

“Alone?” he croaked. He cleared his throat. “I mean, of course.”

Another soldier entered with yet another report. Iris fought the temptation to turn and run. She was committed now, and better she confess now than just explode with it later at a completely inopportune moment.

Cullen instructed the recruit to leave the report on the desk, and ushered Iris out the door onto the battlements. They walked along in stilted silence, casting skittish glances at each other. The still-functioning part of Iris' brain noticed him reaching up to massage the back of his neck, a gesture she had come to recognise as his nervous tic.

“It's a nice day,” he said suddenly, the words bursting from his lungs.

“What?” she replied, startled.

“The weather, I mean. Er, you wanted to discuss something?”

The imagined moths were in a frenzy and her heart was pounding loudly enough for all of Skyhold to hear. She had rehearsed what to say for the last eighteen hours, but her mind was now blank. “I find myself thinking about you, more than...well, all the time, really,” she confessed, failing to eliminate a wobble from her voice. Well, it was out now. She braced herself for his rejection, or a lecture about how inappropriate her interest was.

Cullen's neck-rubbing became even more frantic. “I can't say I haven't wondered about...well, thought about...it. You. Us,” he admitted shyly.

That didn't sound quite like rejection. “Really? But you never said anything.”

“You're the Inquisitor, there's a war, and...I'm not...I haven't always...been the man I would like to be. The lyrium, my memories...you've seen how they can make me...unwell. I'm...not very good at this. I didn't think it was possible.”

“And if, if it were possible?”

“It feels too much to ask...but I want to.” His voice was so quiet now, so close, his breath warming her skin. Her eyes flickered closed as he leaned in...

...and was interrupted by the creaking of the nearby gate and the intrusion of an untimely messenger. It was, as it happened, the same unfortunate Jim at whom Cullen had been barking during Iris' first awkward encounter with the Commander on reaching Skyhold.

Cullen straightened, caught somewhere between ardour, embarrassment and pique. “What?” he growled.

The soldier carried a report from Sister Leliana, it seemed, which Cullen had asked to be delivered to him promptly.

Cullen strode stiffly to the messenger and fixed him with what could only be described as a gimlet eye. The soldier's notice was drawn to a slight movement to his left, and he was finally cognisant of the mortified Herald, squirming between the crenellations like a fennec caught in a snare.

“I should take it to your office. Right.” _Maker preserve him, what had he interrupted?_ The hapless messenger backed away in terror, certain that the Commander would have him flogged, or worse. As he reached the door, he turned and broke into a run, not stopping until he reached the barracks again. It was a full thirty minutes before he remembered he still needed to deliver the report.

Iris had not opened her eyes, focused instead on trying to resist hurling herself off the wall, or perhaps dissolving into the mortar between the bricks on which she stood. She knew how seriously Cullen took his work; he would want to go read the dispatch. “If you need to -”

And suddenly Cullen's lips were on hers, his stubble rough on her chin and cheeks, his adorable nose grazing along her own. He tasted of honey shortbread – a regular gift from Josephine - and his strong hands held her face, one arm sliding down to clasp her at the waist. The fluttering changed, sharpened into a tension akin to pain, pain which could only be salved by kissing Cullen like this every moment for the rest of their lives, or possibly forever. A whimper escaped her lips unbidden, and her arms wove around him, her fingers grasping the fabric at his back and twining in the soft fur at his shoulders.

He broke off, breathless. His nose and cheeks were apple-red, glowing. “I'm sorry. That was, um, really nice.” For a moment, the stern Commander was gone, replaced by a bashful boy with a wavering smile. Still trying to remain a proper gentleman, even with their breath still mingling and her lips still smouldering from his kiss.

“Please don't be sorry,” she breathed. Her head swam. “You don't regret it, do you?”

Regretful was the last word Cullen would use to describe his mood at present. “Not at all,” he said, leaning in to kiss her again; and so they stayed, until the sun sank into the mountains behind them, and the sudden twilight and cool night air drew them back to earth, Cullen drifting dazedly back to his office, and Iris stumbling down the stairs on bloodless feet.

…

The next day dawned, the sky as bright and glorious as Cullen felt. He hummed merrily to himself as he pottered around his office, signing papers, writing orders and instructing soldiers with a buoyant heart. When Leliana and Josephine appeared at his door, he waved them in with a smile – until he caught sight of the puckish grins both women wore. In their respective elements of espionage and diplomacy the two women were formidable, but such expressions on the ex-bards could only spell mischief.

“Ladies, how may I help you?”

Leliana put on her best mock-serious face. “It is our duty to remind you that threats to the Inquisitor's safety will not be tolerated.”

Cullen was befuddled, the spymaster's jocular manner belying her grave words. “Has there been some trouble?”

“You are a dangerous influence, Commander. The Inquisitor almost fell down the stairs after she left you yesterday,” Josephine noted with a sly smile.

“What?” The Inquisitor was preternaturally graceful and steady on her feet. Cullen's nose began to turn red. “What are you...”

“It seemed she was rather overwrought. Overwhelmed. Overstimulated.” The ambassador's eyes twinkled.

“You know, Commander...after you kissed her,” teased Leliana.

“What?! How did...did she tell you?” Cullen blushed furiously.

“She didn't need to. I happened to be sending Baron Plucky out to deliver a message and spotted the two of you on the battlements.”

“And I may have been there with Sister Leliana. Er, and her spyglass,” Josephine confessed.

“What?!”

The women laughed. “Well, you were right out there on the wall in daylight, Commander. It was hardly a private place! You could have stayed in the office. What were you thinking?”

Cullen groaned, head in his hands. “I don't suppose I _was_ thinking. Not...very clearly, anyway.” He sighed again. “There's no privacy _anywhere_ at Skyhold.”

“I think you frightened that poor messenger half out of his wits!”

“What's going on here?” came the Inquisitor's voice from the doorway.

“Inquisitor!” Cullen practically leapt out of his chair to attention.

Leliana and Josephine laughed again, as Iris eyed the scene suspiciously.

“It seems you and the Commander made quite a stir the other day on the battlements, Inquisitor,” Leliana smiled. “Dragging him out onto the wall to seduce him like that.”

Iris was mortified. “Wh...ohh!”, she wailed. “What was I...clearly I wasn't thinking, I was far too nervous.”

“That is just what he said! Almost those very words!”

Cullen and Iris exchanged a sheepish, timid smile. They were so alike, at times.

More snickering. Iris fixed her sternest gaze on Leliana and Josephine. “If you two are done tormenting the Commander, I need to discuss troop movements in Emerald Graves.”

“Very well. We will leave you to your...'troop movements', the spymaster concluded with a sly smile. As they left the office, still giggling to themselves, Cullen hunched at his desk with his face hidden by gauntleted fists.

Iris closed the door. “They're gone, Cullen,” she said, trying not to laugh. He looked up, his face red.

“Right, you wanted to...” Her pink cheeks and sparkling eyes completely derailed his train of thought. She moved silently next to the desk, not taking her eyes off his.

Emerald Graves, it seemed, would have to wait.


	5. Chapter 5

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Every day while she was at Skyhold, she would be sure to find time to drag Cullen away from his desk for a few moments. For someone who continually lamented how unskilled he was at romance, he was remarkably adept at kissing her. Even when she was away, she worked with a renewed energy. The skies seemed brighter, the sun felt warmer, and her feet were as light as her heart. Her comrades were pleased to see their leader so upbeat, although they sometimes worried to each other how long her vitality could continue, such was the verve with which she toiled.

Cassandra and Varric were not quite the best of friends yet, but they had patched over their rift. Varric's gift of the latest chapters of _Swords and Shields_ had gratified the Seeker more than she would admit. Since then, their banter had become less tense and more playful, although Varric retained a knack for getting Cassandra to shriek in outrage, to the amusement of everyone else. Iris was pleased to see their mutual distrust shift and ripen into a grudging respect, and the start of a genuine friendship. Indeed, all of her companions were getting along better of late, growing accustomed to each other's idiosyncrasies and methods of operation. Even Bull's Chargers were beginning to open up to the rest of the team, sharing drinks and stories of past missions.

The Inquisition itself was making great strides as well. Construction had begun to rebuild several destroyed bridges across Orlais, restoring commerce and safe passage to citizens nearby. An expert on dragons had been recruited to undertake research on the creatures on behalf of the Inquisition, and information on numerous subjects had been collected for study. A plague of undead had been halted in the Exalted Plains, and countless bandits, renegades, red Templars, Venatori and demons had been defeated. The Inquisitor had used the Anchor to close fade rifts all across Southern Thedas, and activated ancient elven artifacts Solas claimed would strengthen the Veil, preventing further rifts from forming.

There was always more to be done, however. There was never a shortage of people in need in the world even at the best of times, and with civil war in Orlais, a darkspawn magister and his minions on the loose, and hostile creatures from the Fade wandering the world, it was hardly the best of times. Nor was Skyhold itself less busy, with Josephine deluged in demands and requests for money, troops, political support and statements on behalf of the Inquisition. Whenever Iris returned to Skyhold, she was confronted with an ever-changing stream of new faces, all seeking a word, a moment, a thought, a boon; from devout pilgrims praying she could cure their children to pompous nobles hoping her celebrity would rub off on them.

The House Trevelyan motto was 'Modest in temper, bold in deed'. Cullen considered that their daughter embodied this sentiment perfectly. He had seen her on the battlefield, fighting with the grace of a dancer, the strike of a viper, and, not occasionally, the stubbornness of a particularly implacable mule. But she was no born warrior; she fought out of necessity only, not desire. Her heart was kind and her soul was gentle, although her hand could not always afford to be so. He knew how much she hated sitting in judgement, especially if it led to an execution. He had seen her extend mercy and forgiveness again and again and seek to resolve conflicts without bloodshed wherever possible.

At every turn he heard something more inspiring of her, saw how she seemed to just know how to put others' minds at ease, be it with a joke, advice, or earnest sincerity. She had managed to impress _Cassandra_ , for heaven's sake.

She had accomplished so much, and yet she was self-effacing almost to a fault. Indeed, it seemed that she had a great deal of practice at slipping away unnoticed and making herself inconspicuous. She couldn't quite become as perfectly invisible as Cole, perhaps – she was flesh and blood, after all – but she had ways of being unseen, honed from both combat training and years of escaping from tedious social functions and her great-aunt Lucille's dreaded opera excursions.

Publicly she tried to show strength and confidence. She knew what was riding on their mission, and on her role as both leader and inspiration for the Inquisition. In private, however, she confessed so much doubt. For all the faith she put in others, she seemed to have much less in herself, her wisdom and fitness to make the decisions she was called upon to make. She sought no glory, all the while doing glorious deeds and being...well, glorious.

Cullen watched through the narrow window as Iris and Sera indulged their sweet tooth on the roof of the inn. Although he would never admit it to her face, he was rather afraid of Sera, the girl's wildly mercurial nature and spontaneous fits of rage difficult to predict. A city elf revolutionary, a Qunari spy, a Tevinter magister, an oddly human spirit...the Inquisitor had amassed a veritable gaggle of odd misfits, taking them with the same soft-heartedness as a child bringing home a stray dog. It was an accurate characterisation; over the years, the Trevelyan household had played host to any number of small animals which a young Iris would “rescue”, attempting to rehabilitate them with varying degrees of success. Nonetheless, he admired her willingness to take everyone she met as they were, to look for the goodness in people and give them a chance to demonstrate their character. It was a quality he had not always managed, to his regret.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock and a voice at the door. “Anybody home?”

“Varric. How may I assist you?”

“I'd like a word with you, Commander.” Before Cullen could object that he was too busy, he added, “It's about Cookie.” Varric had a nickname for everyone, and the Inquisitor's was Cookie from the moment he learned of her sweet tooth, and her penchant for wheedling sugary biscuits from Cullen.

Cullen glanced at him sharply in alarm. He waved the soldier out of the room and closed the door. “Is she...”

“Relax, Curly, she's fine.” Cullen was too relieved to be irked at his own moniker. “She's just exhausted. She pushes herself out in the field, always looking for more she can do. She barely sleeps. She stops to give us a break, but then she stays up half the night looking at requisitions, getting scouting reports, planning everything that needs to be done before we head back to Skyhold. We look after her as best we can out there...I mean, you know the Seeker, she's unbreakable, and Spar - Dorian and I try to take her mind off things, but she never stops. She goes out of her way to help anyone and everyone who asks or seems to need it. Not that I don't admire her compassion, but she's trying to save the world one person at a time, and it's wearing her out.”

He shifted in his chair. “Sometimes she reminds me a bit of..”

“Of Hawke?”

The dwarf nodded. “And not just because they could almost be sisters. Less jaded, though. More idealistic. Can hardly blame Hawke though...Maker knows, hell, _you_ know what kind of shit she went through in Kirkwall. Still the best damn thing to happen to that place in...” He trailed off.

“When I first met the Inquisitor, she brought to mind the Queen of Ferelden,” Cullen said quietly. “Gentler, and wiser, perhaps. The Warden and King Alistair were...we were all barely more than children then.”

Varric thought for a moment. “I guess I can picture that. Never met the Hero of Ferelden, but she sounds like someone who wants to mend the world.”

“She was rather...intimidating, actually.” Cullen remembered the Hero of Ferelden vividly; a young woman – girl, really, no older than he – with steel-blue eyes as fierce and fiery as any veteran warrior. It was no surprise, perhaps, given what she had apparently witnessed at Highever. More surprising was her relationship with the young Warden, Alistair. By all accounts and from everything Cullen could, and chose to, remember, the young prince had been something of a goof. There had been no mistaking the dopey, doe-eyed expression when they looked at each other, however. He had seen it again in Kirkwall on Fenris, spending years following Hawke around like the world's angriest stray puppy. More recently, he had recognised it in the looking glass, when he caught himself thinking about Iris.

“Look, the point is, she needs you, and not just for your military expertise. I've seen the way she looks at you. That's no idle infatuation, Curly. That's the real thing. The way her face lights up when she sees you? Never take something like that for granted. When someone like her, looks at you like _that_ , you take that opportunity.”

Cullen knew that look; it gave him life. Seeing her worries fall away for a moment, knowing that she felt joy to see him – it was the sweetest feeling in the world.

He flushed slightly. “I know. I - I don't. Take it for granted, I mean. I can hardly believe...but I can't be selfish. The Inquisition has to be our priority – _her_ priority. If I'm to be worthy of her at all - ”

“Trevelyan might be the Herald of Andraste, but Andraste was a human underneath it all, too, at first, anyway. You want my advice? Nah, I know you don't, but you're getting it anyway. Let her be the Herald, or the Inquisitor, or Andraste's Holy Golden Nug while she's out there in the world. When she's _here_ , and it's just the two of you, you let her be just...Iris. Don't get hung up on trying to be worthy. Just be _there_.”

Varric got up and headed for the door. “Oh, and one last thing – can you try to get her to cut down on the jumping and climbing she gets up to? Not that she hasn't get the legs for it, or the ass, I'll give you that, but some of us count our skills in...other areas.” Varric was delighted to see that his words had the desired effect of causing the tip of the Commander's nose to turn a vivid shade of burgundy. By the time Cullen could think of a suitable response, the dwarf was halfway through his first ale down at the Herald's Rest.

…

Cullen met her out on the battlements, as he usually did. It did him good to stretch his legs and get away from his desk, and they both enjoyed the clean, bracing wind that swept along the high walls. Tonight they strolled in the general direction of the armoury, in no particular hurry.

“I spoke to Varric earlier.”

“Oh?”

“It was about you, actually.”

Iris looked at him, searching his face for some clue of what they may have discussed. “Me? He's not teasing you about us, is he? I know you don't like talking about personal things.” Cullen was intensely private, and it took time for him to share himself with people. Their relationship was no secret, but neither did they intend to invite everyone to pry into their personal affairs.

“No, no. Well, yes, a bit,” he added. “He asked me to tell you to stop climbing on things,” he said drily.

Iris laughed, and rolled her eyes. “That again? I've _told_ him he doesn't need to follow every footstep I take! But in order to scout thoroughly and properly, you often need to climb up to high vantage points. Anyway, it's good for balance. I always used to walk and jump on fences and walls and railings and things. It vexed my mother to no end, but dance steps don't seem nearly as difficult in a ballroom if you've already practised them on a fencepost. And fencing is sort of just dancing with daggers.”

Cullen shook his head. “The sword training given to Templars and soldiers involves rather less dancing on balustrades, I'm afraid.”

Iris smirked. “I'm not a soldier, Cullen. I don't suppose I would be very good at soldiering.”

His smiled softened. “No. But I'm rather glad of that, I think. I like you the way you are...dancing and all.”

She squeezed his hand in response.

“Anyway, what he really wanted was...well, he's a bit worried about you. He thinks you're working too hard.”

Iris sighed. She knew she was taking on a lot, and she'd overheard rumblings amongst the team along these lines before. She stopped, looking out over the mountains. The sky was dark, lit only with a few luminous, wispy clouds, scattered with stars like bright diamonds on a jeweller’s velvet. “It can't be helped, really. We're _all_ working hard. There's a lot that needs doing.”

“You don't need to remind me,” he replied with a wry smile, wrapping his arms around her and bringing his chin to rest on her shoulder, his furry cloak tickling her ears. “Some days I think I'll never be finished with paperwork. But you needn't try to do everything yourself. Everyone here is ready and eager to serve. There must be some small tasks you can delegate to others.”

“You're probably right. The thing is...I _like_ the small things. Sometimes when I'm out there, I can almost forget that I'm in charge of, of so much. When there's some little act of good, of kindness I can do, something that doesn't even have to be about the Inquisition, or tactics or politics or alliances...it's _easy_. It's something I can do to make someone's life better, when no one else can or will. How could I not? I don't want to just ignore it, because it's tiring, or inconvenient.

“I know that I have to look at the big picture, and I know that I have to make difficult decisions. I know sometimes I have to choose the lesser of two evils. Idealism won't stop Corypheus, it won't stop the red lyrium, it won't end a blight, and it won't put Thedas back together. But I can't just...I don't think I can sacrifice everything I believe is right to justify the ends, not all the time. Sometimes I just need to do something I _know_ is the right thing to do.”

Cullen held her even tighter. “Then I don't want you to stop.” He kissed the back of her neck. “Just...let me take care of you, while you're here, my lioness.”

She shifted to face him with questioning eyes. Given the family business, Trevelyans were more usually compared to horses, not always politely. “Lioness?”

Cullen chuckled. “I suppose you don't remember.” He recounted what she had said to him when they found her on the mountain outside Haven, and how he had thought of her ever since.

“I said that?”, she asked, abashed.

“It was lovely,” he whispered, smiling. He leaned in until their foreheads met; and then all their troubles were forgotten, for a little while.

…

Cullen was good to his word. While Iris was away, the best way to help her was to fulfil his duties as Commander to the utmost of his ability. He had to rely on others to keep her safe day to day, as much as he – as they both – would have wished to be together. But whenever she returned to Skyhold, he made a point to steer her through the gauntlet of demands on her time to make sure he had space to clear her head and recover her strength – not to mention, time to spend alone with him, or as alone as they could be in a castle full of people. And selfish or not, he needed her, too.

When he learned he was to have dealings in Ferelden, he arranged a special surprise for Iris – presuming, of course, that he could convince her to accompany him. Fortunately she had some time to spare, and needed very little persuasion to go see where he had grown up.

Once their Inquisition business was concluded, he took her to his favourite spot: a peaceful lake near Honnleath that had been his personal retreat when the din of the rambunctious Rutherford clan became overwhelming. He had not returned here for many years, and was pleased to find it as serene and inviting as he remembered.

It was beautiful. All at once, Iris had a new dream: a house on this lake, with a stable of horses, of course, and a dog, and a warm hearth with a handsome curly-haired man; and there would be no rifts to close, and no beheadings, and definitely no opera.

A foolish dream, perhaps; even if the Inquisition could defeat Corypheus, there was no guarantee she would survive. Even then, their responsibilities would not disappear.

At least they had today. Cullen reached into his pocket and drew out a coin, explaining how his brother had given it to him for luck the day he left for Templar training. Templars weren't meant to carry such tokens, luck being a poor substitute for faith. Still, the coin was the only thing he still possessed of his life in Ferelden, before the Blight and the other troubles that had beset him since leaving home. He folded the coin into Iris' palm.

“Humour me. I know that faith is stronger than luck, but...a bit of luck can't hurt, either.”

Iris could not recall ever receiving a more meaningful gift. Holding it close, she promised to keep the coin safe, and return it to him when Corypheus was finally vanquished.

They sat down on the end of the weathered dock, snuggled together and listening to the chirping of frogs.

“I've told you about my siblings. What about your family? Tell me more about your brother and sister. What are they like?”

“Robert is the oldest. He is married and has two children. He manages most of the estate now.”

“I thought your father...is he unwell?”

“Oh no, he's well, as far as I know, at least. He was never really interested in running the stables, but he was the oldest son so it fell to him anyway. He's sixty-seven now so he has passed a lot of the responsibilities on. He's still the bann, of course, but Robert oversees the stables and such.”

The Trevelyan family's wealth and position had been secured through their standing as one of the best breeders of horses in the Free Marches. Some of Dennet's best stock could trace their bloodline back to the Trevelyan farms, in fact. Iris' ancestors had provided many of the greatest warhorses to see action in the course of Marchers' conflicts with the Tevinter Imperium, Orlais, Nevarra and the Qunari, and the great houses of Starkhaven and Kirkwall had seen the family well rewarded for their contributions. When heraldry came into fashion in the Marches, there was little doubt as to what would feature on the Trevelyans' shield.

Iris continued. “What Father really loves is automata, you know, clockworks and things? Dwarven ones are best, apparently, but they are terribly expensive. He spends most of his time playing with them and tinkering with them and buying them and trading for them now. Mother thinks it's a bit silly, but she likes it really.”

“Do you look like her?”

“Mother? No, I take after Father. Mother's family are Antivan so she has lovely olive skin and dark eyes. Robert and Emma look more like her, although Emma has Father's eyes. She is the beauty of the family and was always exceedingly ladylike. She moved to Tantervale when she got married.”

“Why were you chosen to attend the Conclave, then, rather than your brother or sister? Not that I'm complaining, mind you.”

She smiled. “They were not available. My parents felt Robert was needed more at home, and Emma was expecting again, so she couldn't make the journey, either. I have had so little time to write to her, I wonder if she had a boy or a girl.” She turned to look at him again, shaking off wistfulness. “I had no commitments...and no suitors,” she added with a sigh, “so I was chosen to go.”

“Are you close with them? Your brother and sister, I mean.”

“Yes and no. I love my family, and they have always been good to me. My brother and sister were probably closer with each other than with me, though. They are very near in age but then there are six years between Emma and me. I spent more time with my cousins, growing up. Celia is my age, and Eoin is the baby. They are my father's younger brother's children. They lived quite near to us, so we saw them most days.

“Celia is so lovely. She is the kindest girl you will ever meet. She is a Chantry initiate. I don't think there was ever a doubt she would be a Sister.” Celia had never shown any interest in boyfriends or marriage, seeking instead to do good for those in need in the name of the Maker, and inspiring Iris to do the same.

“Eoin was meant to enter Templar training but he never truly wanted to go, and my aunt didn't want him to leave home either.” Eoin's had been a difficult birth, and his mother spoiled him as a result.

“He would have been terrible at it anyway; he falls in love with any girl who looks at him. He went off to study in Nevarra – philosophy, mathematics, history, music, the usual things. I must admit, after all that has happened, I am relieved he did not become a Templar. We had heard a bit about -” Iris paused, not wanting to open old wounds for Cullen.

“The lyrium?”, he prompted her gently.

She nodded. “I know the Templars are there to do a difficult job. I just...”

She turned to him, her eyes full of sympathy and love. “I wish I had known what was happening in Kirkwall, Cullen. It was not so far away. I wish I could have helped you, somehow.”

“There was nothing you could have done. As much as I would have liked to meet you sooner, I am glad you did not know me then. I was...not the man I am now. And you have helped me. You have saved me.”

“Don't say that, Cullen. It isn't true.” He made to interject, but she continued. “You saved yourself. You are the one who pulled yourself together after the Ferelden Circle fell. You are the one who stood up to Meredith in Kirkwall, when her cruelty became undeniable. You are the one who left the Templars, who walked away from the only life you had known, because you felt it was the right thing to do. You stopped taking lyrium, on your own, even though it hurts you, even though it frightens you, even though you have to fight it back always. You did this, Cullen. You are the strongest person I have ever known. Do not diminish yourself. Every day you get up, and you give everything you can to the Inquisition, and you save yourself.”

Cullen could not express how much her belief in him meant, how much he loved her. He could only hope that his unfaltering devotion, his embrace and his breathless kisses would be enough to show her in ways his words could not.


	6. Chapter 6

The time had come for the Inquisition to move against the Grey Wardens in their stronghold at Fort Adamant. Few relished the thought of fighting against the men and women whose lives were devoted to stopping darkspawn and the Blight, but the Wardens had left them no choice. Their minds manipulated by Corypheus, they planned to summon a vast demon army – an army the darkspawn magister would then turn against all of Thedas.

The Inquisitor and her squad were not alone in this undertaking. The full strength of the Inquisition's army went with her, including a battery of heavy siege weapons. Cullen led the troops into positions and coordinated the trebuchet fire on the walls.

When the main gate had been breached, the Inquisitor and her companions moved in to clear the way for the siege ladders, and to seek a cease-fire from the Wardens, if at all possible. Iris and Cullen exchanged a meaningful look as she left the front lines and entered the fort. Scant minutes passed as the Inquisitor hurried to the walls, fending off mind-muddled Wardens and the demons they'd already summoned.

Fire on the battlements. _Dorian_ . “I could do this all day!” he heard the mage shout, followed by Cassandra's call to arms and the distinctive mechanical _click-thonk_ fire of Bianca. And then she was there, leaping through a wall of fire, daggers bared like fangs. The demons were routed, and the wall was clear.

“Get to the ladders!” he ordered, his eyes not leaving the wall. He saw her scanning the siege, looking for...

Him. For one moment their eyes met, drinking in their mutual continued safety. And then she was gone, moving stealthily and efficiently to the next tower.

The battle raged on, but the Inquisition was gaining the upper hand. The Inquisitor's attacks allowed the Inquisition's troops to erect the ladders with minimal losses, and some of the Wardens appeared to have ceased their opposition, helping the Inquisitor to destroy the summoned demons. In the distance, Cullen could just make out Clarel, the Warden Commander, and the Venatori magister Livius Erimond.

An unholy shriek split the sky as Corypheus' red lyrium dragon leapt into the sky. Clawing at the battlements, the beast chased the Inquisitor as she sped towards the summit where the blood magic ritual was to take place. At last she arrived, and a tense stand-off between the Wardens, Erimond and the Inquisition began.

The Inquisition's army fell quiet, straining to see and hear what was taking place above. Suddenly there was a flash of fire from the Warden-Commander's staff, and pandemonium broke out on the keep, with Clarel, Erimond and the Inquisitor running ahead to a bridging wall. From below, Cullen could see only bright sparks of magic and the thrashing wings of the dragon, diving towards a figure below it. The dragon was engulfed in a pillar of electricity, tumbling, and the wall exploded around its body like a broken dish. Fleeing figures scrambled for purchase on the falling stones, shrouded in dust.

“REPORT!” Cullen roared over the sound of the still-crumbling bridge. Snippets of information came through, shouted from wall to wall. Clarel had defied Erimond at the last, and turned on both the magister himself and the monstrous dragon Corypheus had sent to assist him. The Grey Warden leader's final act had been to unleash all of her magic at the creature, but the dragon's crashing descent had destroyed the bridge on which she lay. The Inquisitor had been following closely behind, caught in the aftershocks of the collapse. A Warden reported seeing a flash of arcane light, then nothing of Iris or any of her allies. Cullen's jaw and fists clenched. He would tear through the rubble stone by stone with his own hands to find her, if it came to it.

It didn't. After only a few minutes had passed, another rift portal was torn open. Inquisition soldiers and the remaining Wardens steeled themselves for an onslaught of demons, but instead, Hawke, Dorian, Varric, Cassandra and Iris tumbled out, grey-faced and grim-eyed but alive. “Thank the Maker,” Cullen murmured.

Iris looked at the expectant faces around her. “We...fell into the Fade. Warden Stroud,” she said, brokenly, “stayed behind to allow us to return. He was a good man, and we will honour his sacrifice.”

She offered the remaining Wardens a chance for redemption, to join the Inquisition and fight Corypheus. Cullen was not sure he would have made the same decision, under the circumstances; their tainted blood might still leave them open to further manipulation by the darkspawn magister, if nothing else. Still, the Inquisition had offered him, and so many others a second chance, he could not truly begrudge her offer to grant the same opportunity to the Wardens.

The Wardens accepted, and not long thereafter the full company began the long return to Skyhold. Cullen would have liked to speak to Iris privately, but he was inundated with new orders, equipment reports, plans for the Wardens and letters to send to families of soldiers lost in the battle. Nor did Iris, or her companions, seem to be in a mood to talk; and the journey back to the mountains was a quiet one.

…

Iris arrived at Skyhold some days before Cullen returned from Fort Adamant, and she had left for the Exalted Plains by the time he was back at the fortress. Meanwhile, a change had fallen over the Inquisitor. This transformation in her demeanour did not go unremarked by those close to her. The Inquisitor would often leave the camp in the evenings on horseback, remaining away for hours and returning without a word. Even when they travelled together, she was altogether more withdrawn, eating alone in her tent and not sharing in the usual chat and banter as they walked.

A few days after the party had returned to Skyhold, Cassandra approached Cullen in private.

“Commander. I need to speak with you regarding the Inquisitor. I am sure you have noticed that something is troubling her.”

“Yes,” he said, his brows knit with worry. “She has barely spoken to me since she returned.” Instead of her usual effusive welcome, he had been met with distance. She had spent most of the last few days working alone in her chamber, away from her friends. “I wasn't sure if...whether she needed....” He sighed in frustration. “I don't want to disturb her, if she needs some time to herself.”

“Since the Fade she has been...different. Quieter. She speaks little and smiles less. We were all...affected by what happened there, and we have spoken of it, a little, but I believe something is on her mind which she will not share.”

The Seeker continued. “I do what I can, but...I am not good at comforting.” Cassandra threw up her hands helplessly. “The Inquisitor's feelings for you are no secret, Commander. You may be able to reach her in a way the rest of us cannot.” She began to pace. “I do not like to see her like this, Cullen. Go to her. Find out what we can do. I believe that the Maker brought her to us, that it is his plan for her to lead us, but I will not let this turn her into a broken shell of a woman. Perhaps the Maker may work through you as well, to help her where no other can.”

He nodded, and left to seek out Iris.

After nearly an hour and a thorough search of the fortress, the Inquisitor was nowhere to be found, nor could any of her friends or colleagues recall seeing her in quite some time. He had checked the stables twice, knowing that Iris sometimes tended to the horses to help with homesickness; and the garden, where she often spent quiet time among the herbs and flowers, gathering her thoughts. The chambermaid had checked her quarters and not found the Inquisitor there.

Where was she? A knot of fear twisted in his stomach as he returned to his office. Skyhold seemed secure, and no incidents had been reported. Could something have -

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound from upstairs. “Hello?” he asked. “Is someone there?”

There was no reply, bar a quiet snuffling.

“Sera, if you are playing more pranks I am in no mood,” he snarled, more harshly than he intended. The sniffling broke off on an odd choking sound. Had one of the ravens got into the loft?

He climbed the ladder and found neither prankster nor raven. It was the Inquisitor, crumpled in the corner next to his bed, crying. Cullen had long been aware that Iris was far more sensitive than she allowed herself to appear, but he had never seen her in such a state. Cullen fell to his knees, eyes and hands searching her for signs of injury or harm, pushing the long hair out of her face and feeling for cuts or bruises. She would not meet his eyes.

When he was satisfied she was in no physical danger, he settled onto the floor next to her, one arm around her shoulders and one hand cupping her chin. “Inquisitor...Iris...my lioness, what is wrong?”

It was a while before she could speak. “I'm not the Herald of Andraste,” she gasped at last. “It wasn't her that helped me out of the rift. She was never there. It was all a mistake, and I am nothing. Just an accident. I should just be some stupid minor noble married off to a man I don't love to...to breed more stupid minor nobles.”

“No!” Cullen shouted in spite of himself.

She wept again, struggling for air. “This is about what happened in the Fade?” he asked.

She nodded jerkily. “I remember everything now,” she managed between sobs. “It wasn't Andraste. It was Justinia, or Justinia's ghost, or a spirit that looked like Justinia, or, or -” she broke off. “The mark, the mark is from the orb, Corypheus' orb, it fell and I caught it and -”. Her frame was wracked with more heaving breaths.

Cullen held her close, rocking her gently in his arms, allowing her time to say all she needed to say. How long had she been holding this in?

“And then there were the, the nightmares. Oh Cullen, they were horrible.”

“The spiders and maggots?” he asked. “I read Cassandra's report.”

She sobbed again. When she could finally continue, she whispered, “They weren't spiders for me, Cullen. They were, they were _people_. People I know. They were vile. They had their faces, but, but they were wrong. They were so angry, so violent. You were there, only you were, you were all red lyrium, and...and my friends, my family, and they were all rotted and corrupted, dying over and over again, making me kill them,” she choked. “It felt like so many hours there. Every time I close my eyes, I see them again. You wouldn't stop drinking it,” she finished, disconsolate.

 _Maker_. What could prepare anyone for such an ordeal? To relive one's worst fears and traumas night after night...it was a pain Cullen knew all too well.

She spoke again, as though she had read his thoughts. “I couldn't defeat the Nightmare, Cullen. I couldn't, I thought if we could kill it then maybe you wouldn't have the dreams any more, somehow, but I couldn't. Hawke and Stroud, I had to choose someone to stay behind, and, and I, I left Stroud to die, but he had no family, and Wardens and the taint, and Hawke has...”

 _Fenris, and Bethany, not to mention Varric._ Cullen thought he would likely have made the same decision. “What about the others? Have you spoken to them? Cassandra has been worried about you.”

Her weeping recommenced. “They heard horrible things too. And Varric won't speak to me now, he's too upset that Hawke was in danger again. Dorian is so angry with me for taking us there, in case other mages try to go now, but we were falling and it, I didn't, it just sort of happened. We were all going to die. I shouldn't have this power,” she wept, looking at her marked hand bitterly. I'm just a mistake.

“I can't let them...I need to be the Inquisitor. But they heard. They know I'm not the Herald and it was all a lie. I shouldn't even, I shouldn't even have told you. You have enough troubles of your own, you don't need mine. I only came here because it was quiet, and, and it smelled like you,” she confided in a whisper.

“What if he's right, Cullen? What if there is no Maker? It's all just luck. It means nothing, and it matters nothing. We exist or do not, life continues or does not, and it makes no difference. The Qun, Tevinter, the Dalish, everyone is right, and no one is right, because there is no truth, no reality beyond what we imagine. There is no Maker's will to work in the world, there is only what we do with the power we have, and those with power dictate their own rightness to the powerless. That's, that's almost worse than Corypheus winning. But lately, I'm afraid that it is true, and I...I don't know how to go on.”

He bent his head to hers, taking time to let her breathe and to work out what to say, how to comfort her. At last he spoke: “You are not a lie. You have never claimed to be more than you are, and I admire you for it. Corypheus calls you nothing because he fears you. You have defeated him at every effort he has made, and it terrifies him. Iris, look at me,” he pleaded.

She raised her eyes and saw that his face was full of worry and wonderment. “You are...impossible. You walked out of the Fade, not once, but twice. You sealed the rifts and stopped the Breach from growing. You stood against an archdemon and a, a Maker knows what, you brought a mountain down on them and you survived. You saved the Wardens from summoning an army of demons. You travelled through time to save...everything, apparently. You make impossible decisions day after day and still you make time to help anyone who needs it. And you care for me, which certainly felt impossible for most of my life. You have been through the most harrowing torment, and still you think about how it affects others, and not of yourself.

“I don't know if the Maker makes mistakes, or if all of this is just chance. But if you are a 'mistake', if any of this is 'luck', then you must be the best mistake that the Maker has ever made, and the best 'luck' the world could have. I will never stop being thankful for it, for letting me find you and be a mistake along with you. Whatever has happened, it happened because you have a good heart and sought the truth. Andraste could do far worse for a representative.

“Your faith is being tested, as mine was. I had every reason to question the Maker, and why he would...how all the terrible things that happened could ever be his will. I did question it. Now I have found a place where I finally feel like I am doing the right thing in the world, and for myself. You are so strong, Iris. You will get through this. We will get through it, together. You _are_ doing good, every day, and you will keep on doing good. You are where you are meant to be, and I will fight with every last bit of my power to help you do whatever you need to do.”

Her tears still flowed, but the sobbing had subsided somewhat. Cullen folded her in a bear hug until she began to drift off, completely depleted. He would leave her to rest in his bed tonight; he could sleep well enough at his desk or in the barracks. Descending the ladder as quietly as he could, he stepped outside to take in the cool night air.

“You helped.”

Cullen had grown more accustomed to Cole's sudden materialisations, although he would never be quite expecting to see the boy.

“I can't make her forget anymore. I can't take her pain. I am more human now. She wanted to remember. She chose it, even though it hurt. I could feel it, but I didn't know how to help. But you helped.” Since confronting the former Templar who had left the original Cole, a young mage in the White Spire, to die in the dungeons there, Cole had embraced more of his humanity. He was still not fully human, perhaps, but he showed himself able to grow, to remember, in a way alien to most spirits. Iris and Varric, who had taken the boy under his wing, kept an eye on him along his journey to discover what it meant to be a mortal.

“Oh. Good,” was all Cullen could think to say in reply.

“Strength in gentleness. The true power is the new light in a frightened child's eyes, knowing she helped put it there. An old coin, warmed in her hand, reminding her why the world is worth saving, what the sacrifice is for. Maker and Andraste, protect him always.”

Cullen was getting slightly better at interpreting Cole's enigmatic proclamations, but he had no response to this insight, so clearly about Iris' state of mind.

“Er, thank you, Cole.”

Just as quietly as he'd arrived, Cole departed, and Cullen made his way towards the smithy to talk to Cassandra, pondering the boy's last words.


	7. Chapter 7

Not long after the siege of Fort Adamant, Iris had found Varric conversing in hushed tones with a dwarven lady Iris had not seen before. The woman was Bianca, the ingenious smith for whom Varric's unique crossbow was named. Varric had spoken little about Bianca in the past, although Iris had gleaned that theirs had not been a happy relationship, their separation one of necessity rather than choice. Varric plainly considered Bianca the love of his life. Iris was both surprised and intrigued to meet her at last.

Bianca had not travelled all the way to Skyhold on a social call, it seemed. Varric had already revealed that he'd encountered red lyrium almost ten years prior, long before the explosion at the Conclave and the rise of the red Templars. During an expedition to the Deep Roads, Varric, Hawke, and Varric's brother Bartrand discovered a red lyrium idol in a long-forgotten primeval thaig. Leaving Hawke and his brother locked in the thaig, Bartrand had fled with the idol, later selling it to Knight-Commander Meredith. Both Bartrand and Meredith were ultimately driven mad by the idol and the mysterious “song” it produced to those exposed to it.

Now Bianca had come to Varric with some information: someone had leaked the location of the primeval thaig to Corypheus, and he had entered the Deep Roads to gather the red lyrium he desired. Since then, the red Templars, and their Carta allies, had been shipping the material across Thedas. The Inquisitor had accompanied Bianca to Valammar in an attempt to block further access to the thaig, cutting off the red lyrium supply at the source. Once they were there, however, it became evident that Bianca herself had been the one who informed Corypheus of the red lyrium's existence, albeit unknowingly.

After receiving a letter from Varric describing the idol Bartrand had found, and the effect it had on him, Bianca had travelled to the Deep Roads to study the substance. What she had learned was stunning: red lyrium was corrupted by the Taint, the same disease that created the darkspawn. Thus, lyrium itself was not simply a mineral, but a living organism. Bianca had hoped her research might unearth some method for healing Bartrand's mind, but while searching for a Grey Warden mage to assist her further, she unwittingly met with Corypheus possessing the body of a Warden, giving him a key to the Deep Roads, and access to as much red lyrium as he desired.

In spite of her good intentions, Varric was furious with Bianca for what she had done. Interacting with red lyrium perilous in and of itself, and he had already lost one person to its corruption. By spending time away from home and communicating with Varric, Bianca placed them both in danger from her family, as well. Bianca's parents had forced her into a marriage against her will, and they had sent assassins to kill Varric each time they had met since then – not to mention that their relationship had almost started a clan war, enraging the Merchants' Guild. Any contact between the two could lead to either or both of them being punished by the Guild, even to the point of death. As soon as the entrance to the thaig had been locked, Bianca left, alone, with Varric still too angry to say goodbye.

Dusk was falling now as the Inquisitor and her crew sat in their camp in the southern Hinterlands. As the others gathered around the fire sharing a meal, Varric sat alone on the edge of the camp, staring blindly at the horizon. The Inquisitor approached him.

“Hey, Cookie. If you're here to yell at me, you may as well not bother. I've been blaming myself for this red lyrium mess since before you even knew it existed.”

“Of course not,” she said, sitting down next to him. “I know you think it's all your fault, but it isn't.”

“Who then? Bianca wouldn't even have known about it if it weren't for me, and Bartrand...he's already paying for it.”

“Varric, Corypheus is a darkspawn. There's every chance he'd have found out about it some other way, even if nobody had ever told him. For all we know, he can sense it. Aren't all tainted creatures sort of...mentally linked together?”

“Don't look at me. Ask Blackwall. He's the Grey Warden here.”

Iris frowned. “He doesn't seem to know much about it, either. I get the feeling the Wardens didn't tell him all that much when they recruited him.”

“They're a weird bunch, for sure.”

“The point is...yes, Bianca made a mistake, but at least she's tried to fix it now. What she's discovered is mind-boggling. Who knows what this could change, for dwarves, for mages, for Wardens. And her intentions were good, I think.”

Varric grunted. “Remind me, what is it they say about good intentions? Something about, 'the road to hell?'” He sighed.

They sat for a while in silence before the Inquisitor broke the lull. “I know you don't like to talk about your past, but...what actually happened between the two of you?”

“You're right. I don't like to talk about it,” he answered at last.

“Varric,” she pressed him.

“You really need to know, huh? We met a long time ago when she was living in Kirkwall. Her parents are surfacers, same as I am, but...old-school. They still buy into all that caste bullshit. Bianca, she's...she'd probably be a paragon by now, if she'd been born in Orzammar or Kal Sharok. Her family never liked me. So, they decided to marry her off to a nice, safe dwarf from the Smith Caste. Bianca didn't like it, but eventually she stopped fighting.”

“And her husband?”

He shrugged.

“But you still write to each other? You keep in touch?”

“We send letters, and meet up every once in a while, yeah. It's not always quite as exciting as today.”

Iris frowned. That both Varric and Bianca were still carrying a torch for each other was clear, but their relationship seemed doomed, to her point of view. Whatever he had shared with Bianca, it seemed it could not be worth leaving himself alone and in pain, and actual physical danger, for the rest of his life.

“Is that really enough for you? Don't you think you should...I mean, wouldn't it be better for both of you to just-?

“Careful, Inquisitor,” Varric said, his tone darkening.

“I don't mean to upset you, Varric, but...where do you see it going, with Bianca?”

“Who says it has to go anywhere? You can't just turn how you feel on and off, you know. I get it, you don't like her. You wouldn't be the first. I know she's not as soft and cuddly as you, but not everybody has to be.”

“It's not that.”

“Look, if you want to be angry at someone about the red lyrium, be angry at me. I sure as hell am.”

“I don't have anything against her as a person, Varric. She's clearly extraordinary. What she's learned about the lyrium, and the Blight? That's _huge_. But your relationship with her...you've both made your choices, and I don't think you can keep picking away at them like this.”

“Butt out, Herald.” He knew she hated that title, an honour she'd never claimed for herself, and sounding too much like her father's name.

She was in it now; she may as well finish. “You loved Hawke, didn't you?”, she said, gently. “You still love her. Only you never said anything because of your feelings for Bianca. You lost your chance.” He steamed silently, his back to her.

“This isn't the life I imagined for myself, either, you know,” she said, holding up her hand. “Do you think I wanted to go round fighting and killing people and going to the Fade” - she shuddered involuntarily - “and being denounced by the Chantry? But what can I do? All I can do is make the best of how it is, not keep trying to make life into what I wanted it to be.

“Varric, I know you're angry, and that's OK. I won't bother you about it again. Just...you deserve to be happy. I consider you a friend – a good friend – and a good person, and you deserve that. I would hate to see you waste more chances.” With that, Iris walked away.

Varric stormed off into the darkness. He wasn't sure where he was walking, but he knew he was moving away from the camp, and that was the right direction. He didn't get far before the hilly terrain slowed his pace to a crawl, his feet catching on every root and turning on every loose stone. She was wrong, she was so wrong. Sticking her bloody nose in when it was none of her damn business, thinking she knew what was right for him when she'd barely lived. As if she were some kind of expert on love and relationships. Typical nobles, thinking the world works like stories, like they've got it all figured out. _She's wrong_.

“Is she?”

Varric nearly jumped out of skin, but he recognised the voice.

“Andraste's ass, you scared the hell out of me.”

“Is she wrong?”

“You really don't want to get into this one, Kid. What are you even doing here?”

“She was worried you'd get lost, or hurt. I came to watch you.”

“Well you can tell her I don't need -”

“'Humans change. They get hurt, and they heal. He needs to work it out like a person.' You said that, when I wanted to kill the Templar who killed Cole. I had to let go of the old chains. They were holding him, but they were holding me, too. Now I have to remember, but it doesn't have to stop me. Maybe you can work it out like a person, too.”

Varric remembered that conversation. Advice was a lot easier to take when you were the one giving it, he decided.

Somewhere in the distance, a bear growled. Varric was suddenly exhausted, his anger melting into leaden legs and a hollow stomach. “Maybe we should head back now, Kid,” he concluded with another sigh.

“The words on the page scald with hope, secret and strangled, but still burning. A noble heart, glittering brighter beneath the gold. Will the words ever rhyme for me?”

Varric stumbled. “Let's not talk about Bianca any more, OK?”

“But I wasn't...all right.”

Varric trudged back into the camp, ignoring the hush that fell over the conversation as he returned. He was more than ready to put today behind him. As he fell into his bedroll seeking a good night's sleep, as relieved as he'd ever been that dwarves couldn't dream.

…

Iris sighed wearily. This stop at Skyhold was a short one. They had only returned from the Storm Coast two days earlier and were due to depart again three days hence. Her boots had barely just dried out, and Scout Harding's report indicated that the weather in Crestwood was regularly inclement this time of year. Whatever could be said about the Western Approach, Iris thought – it was a desert wasteland filled with hostile dragon-kin and choking acidic pools, after all – it was at least warm and dry. She was wearing through socks and footwear at an alarming rate trudging through wetlands.

With all requisitions completed for the evening, Iris headed for her quarters. Varric intercepted her at the door.

“There you are! I was afraid we'd have to start without you.”

“What's all this?” Iris asked. Varric's only response was a motion for her to walk with him.

“Is this about...what is this about?”, she asked warily. Her last few conversations with the rogue had been tense ones.

“Don't look so scared, Cookie! Come with me.”

She followed him to the Herald's Rest. “I found her. Let's start!”

The inn was largely empty that evening, but several tables had been pushed together in the centre of the room. Sat round them were Dorian, Cassandra, Cullen, Cole, Iron Bull, Blackwall and Josephine. “Wicked Grace – you in?”

She ought to go work on some correspondence, but perhaps a game would do no harm. It was good to see Varric smiling again. Everyone had been working themselves to the bone. Perhaps the best decision she could make as a leader just now was not to lead at all, but simply to be a friend to her followers. More than that, Cullen was evidently taking time out to relax and socialise, something he didn't do often enough. Iris was keen for him to like her friends, and vice-versa.

She sat down, smiling. “Very well. But remember, I am still learning!”

Iris would never be very good at Wicked Grace so long as her expressive eyes gave her away at every turn. She played as capably as she could, but many of the others completely outclassed her. She and Cassandra, who was far too blunt and asked too many revealing questions to excel at bluffing, both lost a hefty pile of coin to the more experienced players. Still, the drinks were sweet and the company was boisterous and convivial, everyone sharing the most amusing stories they could recall. Iris had a pleasing view of Cullen from across the table, his normally sombre eyes crinkling in mirth, sometimes meeting hers in a doting look that made her heart rush. The laugh he gave after one of Varric's tales about Hawke was almost funnier than the story itself had been.

The best was yet to come, however. As the evening wore down, the party prepared to go their separate ways, with Josephine having taken a great deal of their gold. Cullen, believing he had determined the Ambassador's tell, challenged her to one final match. With his empty purse and great confidence, Josephine set the stakes high: if she won, Cullen would have to give her all his armour.

Win she did, the artful Ambassador outmatching the Commander in style. Dorian wasn't sure what was more amusing; Cullen's grudging state of deshabille, or the faces Iris made as she watched the Commander undressing. As soon as the Inquisitor's back was turned, Cullen sprinted away to a chorus of hooting and a lascivious waggle of Dorian's eyebrows.

“You see, we should do this more often,” Varric said. “It's good to let people see _you_ , instead of just 'the Herald.' It can be hard to see you as just a person, instead of an icon. For me, at least.”

“You're right. This was fun. We have good people here. And I'm glad that we could spend some time together that didn't involve sadistic Tevinter blood mages or red lyrium monsters.”

“Are my ears burning?”, Dorian said, having finished observing Cullen's departure.

“Not a chance, Sparkler. You're about as sadistic as a teddy bear.”

“You know, I'm not entirely sure if that's a compliment. But I shall choose to take it as one.”

Varric and Iris laughed as Dorian swaggered off.

“I'm just glad we're friends again,” Iris said. “We are, aren't we?”

“We always were, Cookie. We always were. So, are you up for another game, when this is all over?”

“I would say yes, but with you lot, I have a bad feeling I'd end up like poor Cullen.”

“You're never more alive than when you're about to lose your pants, my friend.”

…

Iris left the inn with Varric's parting words resounding in her ears, and images of the unfortunate Cullen fresh in her mind. While she had sympathised with his embarrassment – he was so private, so protective of his dignity – there was no denying that watching him strip off his armour had been...stimulating.

Someone ought to bring his equipment back to him, she decided. It was as good an excuse - reason - as any to see him again this evening. She congratulated Josephine on her impressive performance and nonchalantly enquired what she intended to do with her winnings.

“I think the Commander has learned his lesson. You may take his armour if you like, Inquisitor,” Josephine said with a smile.

Duly laden, she headed towards Cullen's tower and rapped quietly on the door with a boot, her hands being rather full. “Cul-Commander?”

“Just a moment!” came the frantic reply from behind the door.

“It's me.”

“Ir-Inquisitor?” Slightly hesitant now. (Both parties, as it happened, were rather relieved that their names and titles began with similar sounds. It helped immensely in covering up any accidental familiarity, or so they believed.)

“Yes. May I come in?”

Cullen scrambled down the ladder and opened the door just enough to let her through. He had evidently been up in the loft finding some trousers to cover his shame. The moon was waxing, and a cold, clear light filtered through the still-broken beams above, its shadows warring with the light of a single candle.

“That's the last time I play cards,” he grumbled.

Iris' eyes darted away in maidenly modesty, sure he would be uncomfortable being seen in such a state of undress. “I brought back your armour. Josephine kindly relinquished it to me.” But curiosity and temptation won out, and her glance took him in at last. Soft breeches, not very loose, heavy enough to be warm but still revealing so much skin and hinting at more. Iris gaped.

“Oh...thank you, you needn't...that was very kind. Thank you.” He moved to take the armour from her but it was gathered somewhat precariously in her arms.

“How are you going to carry it up the ladder? We really ought to get you a staircase. And fix that roof, for that matter.” She was babbling. Wool. Probably scratchy, though warm. The tailors had plenty of silk, velvet and even cotton, she could ask them to make something nicer. Silk on skin, just a drawstring to hold. Unusually vulnerable, but strong muscles in his back, sculpted lines on his abdomen, fine blond curls on his arms and chest, trailing down.... Goosebumps everywhere, from the draught, no doubt. Rosy glow on neck and shoulders from ale and adrenaline. She had to stop staring. Eventually.

“Oh I...” Cullen cleared his throat. “I'll have to take it up piece by piece. Or just wear it and climb up that way. Just put it down on the floor for now, I'll manage.” She dropped the boots from her hand and let the other pieces clatter to the boards as lightly as she could manage. Cullen picked up the breastplate, as though he might put it on.

“Wait,” Iris quavered.

He looked up.

She dragged her eyes up to his face at last, oddly shy, eyes glazed with drink and heady desire. “V-Varric said...that you're never more alive than when you're about to lose your pants.”

“That sounds like something he would say,” Cullen's voice said, although he was not sure his mouth was moving. His legs certainly weren't, although his heart was racing. He could see her chest rising and falling, breath shallow, throat flushed. It was hypnotic, tantalising. The light of the candle burned in her dark pupils.

 _There is so much death, Cullen. I need life. Please, give me life._ The words formed nebulously in her head, but would not come out. But Cullen understood, or something like it. “Perhaps...perhaps we should test that,” he said quietly.

The breastplate slid to the floor with a dull thud.

He wound his arms around her and drew her marked palm to his lips, kissing it reverently. She reached up to kiss the scar on his upper lip, which had become her favourite spot. These simple gestures revealed not just care or lust, but acceptance, a recognition of each other's responsibilities and struggles.

For the first time, Cullen cursed the wretched ladder which prevented him from carrying her to the loft. Their bodies had become magnetic, inescapably drawn to each other, and every second apart fumbling on the ladder with shaking hands was a second too long. The room was cold but the bed was piled with warm blankets, and the two of them radiated heat like twin suns.

They slept far longer than they had in months, perhaps years, even despite the weak sunlight pouring through the open tower. Iris' eyes opened sleepily, met with Cullen looking down on her, gently stroking her bright hair, the slightest smile on his lips.

“Morning,” she said shyly. “What time is it?”

“Morning,” he said. “It's nearly half nine, I think.”

“What?!” Like Cullen, Iris was generally an early riser. She jolted awake, but then paused. “I can't believe you're not working,” she said, looking back at him with a teasing smile.

“I'm not ready to let you go just yet,” he smiled back, drawing her back to him.

“What if someone comes in?” she murmured against his cheek.

“Then we're not here,” he answered, and there were no more words for a bit longer.


	8. Chapter 8

Iris slumped over the railing on a balcony at the Winter Palace. Behind her, nobles from across Orlais and beyond were atwitter. An assassin at the ball! Tevinter spies disguised as harlequins! A peace treaty! An execution! A scandalous romantic reunion! And the Empress' personal court mage, a rather sardonic, inscrutable woman called Morrigan, to be joining the Inquisition! It seemed the players of The Game had outdone themselves this evening.

Iris, however, was exhausted. She had attended enough noble functions to know that rampant gossip and political intrigue were _de rigeur_ , but this had been another level altogether. The elite in Free Marches society were far more blunt and plain-speaking, and less prone to such over-the-top spectacle.

Worse still was the way he night's events seemed to be treated as nothing more than idle titillation for the gentry. She, an outsider, had been responsible for determining the rulership for the entire Orlesian empire on the strength of her position with the Inquisition alone. It was a decision she had not felt qualified or capable to make, and yet it was on her head. And once again, a choice she had made had resulted in death – Gaspard de Chalons, the man who had brought her to the ball, was executed, and countless elven servants, palace infiltrators and ill-fated bystanders had been slain, and hardly anyone seemed to care or even notice.

 _There is so much blood on my hands._ The responsibility of the Inquisition and everything it changed weighed heavily on her mind and heart. Corypheus had to be stopped; that was never in question. If her tie to the Anchor made her the only one who could challenge him, so be it. But how much else was changing? What fate was she ordaining for all the other people in Orlais, in Ferelden, in Antiva, in Tevinter, thanks only to the authority granted by her wretched hand? How could an accident give her a mandate to rewrite the world?

She stared dully at the flagstones far below. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she saw herself at fifteen, dancing at the Satinalia ball in a green velvet dress with rosy cheeks and a fluttering heart, and nothing to trouble her but when she would finally be kissed. What had become of Rory, she wondered idly. Did he even remember her? She doubted it. She barely remembered herself. It was lifetimes ago, like trying to look at a memory through a deep pool of murky water.

“There you are.”

Iris' melancholy reverie was broken by a voice that had become the dearest sound in the world.

“Everyone has been looking for you.” Cullen took in the hunched shoulders, the bowed head. “Are you all right?”

Iris sighed. “Just tired. It has been a very long night.” Her eyes were distant, her face blank.

“For all of us. I'm glad it's over.” Cullen's evening, fraught with concern for Iris while assassins were on the loose and badgered by persistent simpering admirers had left his nerves frayed.

“I hope I have made the right decision. I suppose it would have ended in death either way. I know you and Cassandra supported Gaspard, and perhaps he would be the better choice for Orlais. With everything we saw in the future, and everything Alexius and Florianne said – they were so clear that Corypheus intended Celene to die. I am sure you are right, that it is the chaos he wants, not Gaspard or Briala, but...I dared not do his work for him. I have no great love for Celene, but to just stand there and let her be murdered...”

“I understand. I know this is difficult for you. I believe you have dealt a great blow to Corypheus tonight, if that may ease your mind somewhat.” Cullen moved closer, leaned on the railing next to her. They stood for a moment in silence. “I know it's foolish, but I was worried for you tonight.” She turned slightly, reaching up to touch the fingers he had laid gently on her arm.

He hated seeing her so forlorn. In the ballroom, the guests applauded as the orchestra finished a tune and began another.

Some weeks earlier, Cullen had made an offhand comment to his fellow advisors about the ball, remarking that he was glad he would only be attending in an official capacity. He had never concerned himself with learning to dance. As Josephine pointed out, however, Iris loved dancing, and she was masterful at it. The visit to Halamshiral was not a social function for the Inquisition, but it was still a ball, and the Inquisitor was still a noble lady who may find the thought of dancing with her beloved at a palace appealing. Indeed, he found the notion romantically pleasing, himself - apart from the fact that said dancing would be in view of a large and judgemental public. The thought of disgracing Iris, and himself, in front of all the nobles of Orlais sent cold dread along his spine.

He needed to learn how to dance, and quickly. Lady Vivienne was the obvious choice, perhaps, but Cullen wilted at the thought of facing Madame de Fer's withering scorn. He tried asking Cassandra for tutelage, but she continually tried to lead, which was frustrating and confusing for both of them. Most of the remaining members of the Inquisitor's inner circle were no more likely to be experienced ballroom dancers than he was, even if he would feel comfortable enough to approach them.

Dorian and Josephine proved much more helpful, ultimately, although even his most fearsome glares couldn't deter the mage from making a few jests at his expense. They danced so elegantly, whereas Cullen felt about as graceful as a druffalo clomping around in his giant boots. Nonetheless, he proved to be an apt pupil, and he discovered that Iris was right about the way swordplay and dance training could overlap. His practice had continued in every spare moment he could find leading up to the masquerade, even slipping off during comfort breaks along the journey from Skyhold to rehearse his steps. Now, he sensed his moment had arrived.

“I may never have another chance, so I must ask,” Cullen said, with all the charm he could muster. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

In his Inquisition finery with that dashing grin, he was something out of a fairy tale. The clouds broke at last as a quizzical smile shone through. “You said you didn't dance?” She had asked him earlier, but he was too nervous, feeling hounded by guests and fearful for her safety.

“For you, I shall make an exception,” he said softly, gathering her into hold. The practice paid off, for in the end, it was only twice that she needed to dodge to avoid him treading on her feet.

…

The Inquisition had finally managed to escape the Empress' grand masquerade. In the first carriage, Leliana, Josephine, Dorian and Vivienne were abuzz with comments and gossip on the whole affair, still laughing and talking all the way back to their accommodation. In the next, Iron Bull and Sera were singing drinking songs and exchanging innuendos while Solas tried to explain as much as he understood about the complexities of Orlesian society functions to a baffled and overwhelmed Cole. Blackwall had been in a rather foul temper all evening, even for him, and had insisted on riding with some of the soldiers and retainers rather than squeezing in with the rest of the inner circle. The last carriage, containing Cullen, Iris, Cassandra and Varric, was quiet, with all four of the party feeling drained by the vagaries of The Game and the seriousness of all that had occurred.

As the horses pulled up to the villa, they walked up the drive in silence. Cullen drew Iris alongside him and put his arm around her shoulders, not caring, for once, who saw this act of affection. She leaned into him, still deeply worried and grateful for his strength. He finally released her at the door to her room with one final soft kiss and a rub of her nose with his. He would have insisted she join him in his bed, had he not worried that his nightmares would deprive her of much-needed rest.

Outside, behind them, Cassandra made a quiet noise. Varric looked at her keenly, or as keenly as he was able given the amount of wine they had both drunk over the last six hours.

“Jealous, Seeker?,” he asked quietly.

“What?”

“You want what they have, don't you?”

Cass spluttered imperceptibly before regaining her composure. “I am happy for them. And tired. Nothing more.”

“...but?”

“I am not having this discussion, Varric.”

“I'm not making fun of you, Seeker. Dwarf's honour.”

They both stopped, and she finally met his eyes.

“I...used to dream of such things, yes. What of it?”

He was quiet for a moment. For some reason he thought back to the night he'd argued with the Inquisitor about Bianca, to some riddle of a thing Cole had said, although he couldn't recall the words.

“You think that it is all just foolishness for your books, sold to simple-minded ladies like me. Well -”

Varric laughed sardonically. “It never even crossed your mind, did it?”

“What?” Cassandra stopped, baffled.

He drew nearer, his voice dropping. He almost looked angry. “It never even occurred to you that I might envy them too, did it?”

Cassandra was flabbergasted.

“You think I'm this worldly dwarf who's been everywhere and done everything and ok, maybe that's true. But where do you think I even get the ideas for that crap I write? You really think there isn't a part of me that doesn't want to be able to forget...to forget Bianca and find a good woman and fall madly in love? To go through all the flowers and sweets and love poetry and all that bullshit?”

The Seeker gaped at him.

Varric recalled his argument with Iris on the subject. He'd been livid at the unsolicited advice, but he couldn't deny the truth of it. He had wasted so much time chasing a past that could never bring him a future. He'd allowed his feelings to shut himself out of taking real risks with his heart, moving forward with his life. He'd convinced himself that he was powerless, that it was all fated; an excuse for inaction.

There was a good woman in front of him now. “Oh the hell with it,” Varric said at last. And he stalked over to Cassandra, wrapped a burly arm around her waist and tipped her backwards at a rakish angle. “Is this what you want, Lady Seeker?”

And Cassandra, reeling, saw nothing else to do but take his face into her palms and kiss him, with unpractised passion; and only half-aware of what he was doing, Varric kissed her back just as hard.

Until, of course, they lost balance in their absurd position and collapsed onto the gravel in a heap.

“Shit!” Varric got up, cursing, automatically extending a hand to Cassandra. “Shit! I should have...how much do you weigh, Seeker?” When in doubt, fall back on jokes, and Varric was definitely in doubt. He was downright flustered.

Cassandra ignored him and stood with as much dignity as she could muster, relieved the darkness hid her face. “It is late, and we have had too much wine.” Her words were icy, but her voice was strained and odd.

As she strode purposefully towards the villa, Varric said quietly behind her, “Good night, Cassandra.” Not Seeker; not this time.

She barely paused. “Good night, Varric,” she said without turning her head. After a moment Varric went in, and the whole household was in bed. But while some slumbered in wine-laden stupor, and others fought through clammy nightmares, two souls found they could not sleep at all, and spent a long night with their own thoughts, and the whistle of the night wind in the trees.

…

The full entourage of the Inquisition was gathering for one last meal in the château outside Halamshiral before commencing their return journey to Skyhold the following day. It was not a formal occasion, but Iris had chosen to wear the dress she had not been able to wear to the masquerade once a common uniform for all attendees had been chosen. She had just finished tying the laces and was rummaging through her luggage for suitable jewels when there was a knock at her door.

“Come in.”

Cullen entered, and stopped in the doorway, bolted to the floor.

She wore an embroidered silk gown of deep indigo-violet, her favourite colour, trimmed with gold and overlaid on a fine chemise of pale saffron. The neckline was closed around her throat, but cut to expose sun-dappled shoulders and collarbone. She was radiant, the most exquisite spring blossom, but wrought of strength and light.

“I was just trying on the gown I wanted to wear to the ball. What do you think?” The part of her mind that never stopped being the Inquisitor rolled its eyes at this girlish indulgence, but Iris had had so few opportunities to be an ordinary woman of late.

“I think it is probably just as well that you could not wear that to the ball.”

Iris's face fell, turning back to the glass with a critical eye. “Oh. It's too impractical, I suppose. And not fashionable enough for Orlais. I don't know how to wear dresses anym-”

Cullen shook his head gently as he drew near her. “No. I mean that if you had, I don't think I could have stopped looking at you long enough to be any use at all.” He reached out to hold her gently, wary of mussing her gown. “Maker's breath, you are beautiful.”

She blushed prettily, and Cullen found his thoughts turning incontrovertibly to how Iris would look in a wedding trousseau, standing at the front of a village chantry across from him; until the part of _his_ mind that never stopped being the Commander shouted at him that they had best go down to the dining room before they became hopelessly distracted and someone was sent to search for them.

Iris donned her slippers and he offered her his arm, and they made their way to dinner, heedless of Sera's catcalls. It was fortunate that the ball had been the previous night, since Cullen managed to end up with almost as much soup on his tunic as in his mouth, unable to tear his eyes away from the Inquisitor for any length of time.

As such, he singularly failed to notice the sullen faces and bloodshot eyes of Cassandra and Varric, pointedly seated as far away from each other as possible. No one seemed to notice, in fact; although Cassandra being tetchy and making disgusted noises was hardly unusual. Varric overindulged in the ale and wine provided, but as this loosed his tongue to regale the assembly with more of his stories, nobody happened to mind. Even Blackwall's surliness tempered somewhat after one of Varric's more humorous anecdotes.

The next morning dawned clear, and the Inquisition set off early, travelling at a good pace while the weather held. Over the next few days the caravan continued onwards toward Skyhold, moving as quickly along the mountain roads as the size of their party would allow. At one point, Dorian contrived to get Cullen and Iris alone in a coach, thinking to give them some time to enjoy each other's company in privacy. When the Inquisitor and the Commander did not immediately emerge when the convoy stopped to rest and eat, Sera crept to their carriage door thinking to surprise the couple _en flagrante_. Instead, the Inquisitor snorted awake while the Commander – always a light sleeper – bolted upright and instinctively drew his sword. Sera's yowl of terror and disappointment made Iron Bull laugh so uproariously he fell off the tree stump he'd been sitting on.

As the journey recommenced, the inevitable dithering about who would sit where resolved itself. Unluckily, this time it was Cassandra and Varric who were left in a coach on their own, grinding their teeth with discomfort, but not prepared to explain to everyone else why it was a problem.

They both sat mutely, pretending to read. After many miles, Varric tossed his book aside.

“We should probably talk about -”

“No. There's no need.”

“Suit yourself.” He turned back to the window, but a few minutes later, he spoke up again.

“Seriously, we have to -”

“No.”

“Cassandra.”

“There is nothing to talk about! We had too much wine and it was a long evening. There is no need to make things awkward now.”

“Right, because up until now we've been having normal, casual conversation.”

Cassandra made a sound of annoyance.

“Look, I just wanted to apologise. I shouldn't have...I mean, I should have asked...I mean, you...ah, sodding hell.”

Cassandra was quiet, looking out at the passing countryside with faraway eyes. “There is no need for apologies. Or if there is, then I should apologise as well. I had as much to do with...what happened as you did.”

Another period of silence, broken only by the rhythm of the horses' hooves on the road and the creaking of wheels.

“What of you and Bianca, then?” Blunt; but the Seeker was never one to equivocate.

“Bianca is – was – well, I'll always love her, I suppose. It's been fifteen years now, you don't just forget that. But Cookie was right. I've been spending the last however many years pretending it hasn't happened the way it happened, that if I just sit here and wait long enough it will all fix itself up right. Marrying Bogdan wasn't what either of us wanted, but I guess it's how it has to be. And maybe a few letters, and trying to hide from assassins and guild thugs isn't enough for me, anymore. If I'm going to...well, if I want something in my life to get better, maybe I actually have to get off my ass and do something about it, even if it fails.

“Look at Sparkler. He came all the way down from Minrathous to try to help his friend, and he stuck around to fight with us even though most people around here would as soon skewer a Tevinter as say hello. Sure, he wasn't able to stop Alexius, or save Felix, but at least he tried. And you, you...nobody would ever call you indecisive, that's for sure. You've had to bring the whole Inquisition together, half of us kicking and screaming. I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but I'm glad we met.”

“I am glad as well. You are not what I would have pictured in a friend, or in an ally, but you are loyal to a fault, and your heart is virtuous, despite what you claim. Perhaps I do not take enough time to consider how what I do will affect those around me.”

“Still not a big fan of your method of introduction, mind you.”

“Shut up, Varric.” She leaned forward now, and so did he, their eyes starting to fall closed. At this point, the wheels hit a pothole in the road, causing the carriage to jolt, and the top of Varric's head to collide with the Seeker's nose.

“Maker's blood!” Cassandra clutched her face, eyes watering.

“Stones!” Varric rubbed his bruised forehead. “I cannot catch a break.”

“Thad is bore thad I can say for by dose,” Cassandra replied sarcastically, her fingers pinching the bridge of said wounded appendage. In truth nothing was broken, and there was no blood and no harm done. She was on the brink of laughter now.

“Somehow I don't think this is the romantic interlude either one of us had imagined.”

“No.”

The landscape passed by. “It doesn't need to mean anything. There is still so much to do. Even when this is over, when Corypheus is defeated, I will have a responsibility to the Seekers, to undo the damage Lucius has done. I would rebuild them into something noble, an organisation that would truly seek the truth and do the Maker's work in the world. No more secrets. No more deceptions.” She turned to Varric again. “And you will return to Kirkwall, will you not? Or will you follow Hawke to Weisshaupt?”

“If she's still there, maybe. Otherwise I'll head north. I know Kirkwall is a bit of a shithole, but it's _my_ shithole. There are people there who deserve better than what they've got these last few...decades, really. If I can help them rebuild their lives, I owe it a try. Not just in Kirkwall, either; a lot of the city-states in the Marches were hit hard by the war.”

“There is always more work to be done, always more wrongs to right.” Cassandra sighed.

“Still...let's just see how it goes, maybe.”

“All right. We will see.”

Varric shifted from his seat to join Cassandra on the opposite bench, moving an uncertain arm towards her waist.

“Careful, Varric. Will I need my shield?”

“Only time will tell, Seeker. Only time will tell.”


	9. Chapter 9

The Inquisition's inner circle was in turmoil after recent revelations. During the journey home from Halamshiral, the party had discovered that Blackwall was no longer with them, having slipped off sometime during the night when the caravan had stopped for the evening. A note from the Warden and a lead from Leliana pertaining to an execution had led them to Val Royeaux, where they found Blackwall interrupting a hanging. There, he revealed the truth: he was no Grey Warden, nor was Blackwall his true name. He had deceived them all. Instead, he was Thom Rainier, a disgraced Orlesian army captain who had ordered the assassination of a general loyal to Celene, and his entire family, for gold. Worse, he had ordered his men to carry out the act without knowledge of what they were doing, or why, and then left them to shoulder the blame while he fled from justice for the crime. Cullen was livid when he learned of Rainier's abuse of his command, and his apparent indifference to his soldiers' fates.

On the run, Rainier had met the real Blackwall, who'd invited him to join the Grey Wardens. Before Rainier's Joining could be completed, Blackwall died saving Rainier from a mortal blow. Rather than continue on to the Wardens with no proof he'd been recruited, or face up to his misdeeds, he took on Blackwall's identity, striving to live up to the Warden's legacy ever since. Iris wasn't sure what sickened her more: that he'd killed children for money, that he'd left his loyal soldiers to bear the consequences, or his suggestion that such a massacre was simply a reality of war, an act which her own troops might re-enact, should she give them any indication it were necessary.

Using her political clout to get Rainier released from prison in Orlais and brought for judgement by the Inquisition had undoubtedly damaged the alliance with Orlais and the relationship with Empress Celene. Perhaps even more seriously, all the Grey Warden treaties the Inquisition had used to garner support were now in question, and a number of Inquisition allies were asking for reparations. Iris had decreed that once the Breach was sealed, Rainier should be sent to the Grey Wardens to complete the Joining, properly this time. She could only hope she'd done the right thing in giving him a chance to redeem himself.

Now they were on their way to the Shrine of Dumat to confront Samson, the leader of the red Templars, a man who had once been Cullen's comrade at the Circle in Kirkwall. Expelled from the order by Meredith for smuggling love letters for a mage there, Samson had resorted to begging and crime to feed his chronic lyrium addiction, becoming embittered in the process. When Corypheus recruited him, Samson had retained his self-awareness through use of a specially constructed suit of armour which granted him the monstrous strength of red lyrium without the accompanying destruction of his mind. His choice to follow Corypheus and pervert his fellow Templars, to prove himself worthy of becoming the darkspawn's 'Vessel', as he called it, was made willingly.

The knowledge of what had become of his former colleague, and how he had warped the Templars who trusted him, revolted Cullen. More than that, it terrified him: in another life, he might have been one of those Templars. He might even have been in the place of Samson himself, so angry, so desperate for revenge against the Chantry, against mages, against the world, that he would become a twisted mockery of everything he believed, all he had sworn to uphold and protect. He was accompanying the Inquisitor on this mission for himself as much as to safeguard her.

Fighting their way into Samson's stronghold, they found a large cache of red lyrium but no sign of the man himself. The camp had been set ablaze, although a number of corrupted Templars remained to defend it. It seemed Corypheus' general had fled. Deep in the heart of the shrine, they found Maddox, the Tranquil mage who had crafted Samson's special armour. He was dying, having set the fires and taken a fatal dose of poison rather than betray any of his friend's secrets, buying Samson time to escape. Samson had saved him, he claimed, seeking him out even before he realised his skills as a Tranquil could prove useful. Before he could say more, he expired, loyal to the last breath.

A search of the camp revealed Maddox' broken tools, the ones he had crafted to maintain Samson's armour. These were collected to take back to Skyhold in the hopes that Dagna, the enchanter, could glean something from them which might help them defeat Samson. Samson had also left a note for Cullen, which he scanned and threw aside bitterly. How dare he pretend that Cullen might understand him, he who had corrupted so many Templars and been responsible for so many thousands of deaths, he who had thrown away the lives of his guards and his friends to save his own skin?

They returned to their camp along the riverbank, feeling a mix of accomplishment for the destruction of the red Templar stronghold, and regret that they had been unable to capture Samson or save Maddox. The Inquisitor set about writing and confirming reports to send back to Skyhold on their progress.

As dusk fell, Iris got up to stretch and check on Cullen. She found him near the river, having just completed some blade training, feeling the need to practice and work off some of his anger. Leant back against a shelf of rock, bared of his armour apart from leather leggings, he glistened with exertion. He poured the contents of his water skin over his steaming face and torso, letting it run in winding rivulets into his tousled hair and gleaming muscles. Iris' jaw dropped. She would need to make a dozen visits to the Chantry to repent for what was going through her mind at present.1

He caught her gawping and stopped short, self-conscious. “Inquisitor.”

“I...er...are you all right, Cullen? I know this is difficult for you. I'm sorry about Maddox.” Iris searched for somewhere safe to focus her eyes. She might be having impure thoughts, but she cared about his heart as much as his body.

Cullen refilled his water skin and walked to her. “Yes,” he said with a sigh. “Just disappointed we didn't catch Samson. I don't think I'll ever understand how he could do what he's done. Maddox, the Templars; they deserved better than that. I am so tired of hate, but when I think about how much suffering he's caused...it's hard to see him as anything but a monster.”

Iris put her arms around him, heedless of the damp. “At least now the red Templars are almost destroyed, and without his red lyrium supply he can't corrupt anyone else that way.”

His skin tingled where her hands moved, his blood still hot from his exercise. “I am better with you here,” he said in that low, electrifying voice. Iris could feel his pulse beneath her fingers.

“A-hem,” came Cassandra's voice behind them. The couple parted sheepishly to look at the Seeker.

“I am sorry to interrupt, but I thought you should know that dinner is prepared, and the scouts are wishing to speak with you.”

“Thank you, Cassandra.” With a last squeeze of Cullen's hand, Iris turned back to the camp.

“No rest for the wicked, it seems,” Cullen said.

“No wonder I'm so tired, then,” she winked back.

Iris filled her bowl with stew from the cauldron and sat down at the fire next to Dorian.

“I take it Cassandra's message came at an inconvenient time? Your face is a picture, dear heart.” Dorian glanced over at Cullen, who was putting on a tunic. “You are a lucky devil, you know that?”

“I know.”

“Then again, so is he.”

Iris smiled shyly and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment, and they ate their dinner as the sun set, both rather enjoying the view.

…

The Inquisitor left the Skyhold kitchen having coaxed a small sweet muffin from the cook. She'd eaten dinner a few hours earlier, but she was still peckish, and she still wanted to speak to Cassandra before she went to bed. Empress Celene's mystical advisor, Morrigan, had brought with her a sort of magical elven mirror called an eluvian which served as a portal to a crossroads, as Morrigan called it; a pocket dimension near the Fade where the Veil was weaker, and where all eluvians joined. The ancient elves had used the mirrors as a means of travelling across great distances. It was Morrigan's belief that Corypheus sought an eluvian of his own, to reach the crossroads and from there to break into the Fade directly. The Inquisition was now planning to move into the Temple of Mythal in the Arbor Wilds where another unbroken mirror remained, and where Corypheus and his army would surely be headed.

More than that, the Inquisition had received a request from the Chantry for both Cassandra and Leliana to go to Val Royeaux to be considered to succeed Justinia V as Divine. As her former Left and Right Hands, and with all of the obvious successors killed at the Conclave, the Chantry was looking further afield for suitable candidates. Leliana and Cassandra had a greater chance of uniting the clerics than perhaps anyone else. The request had been delayed for the time being, since both women were invaluable to the Inquisition's efforts against Corypheus. Nonetheless, Iris supported both women's ideals for bringing much-needed reform to the Chantry, and wished to speak to them both regarding their own thoughts and feelings on the matter.

Finishing her muffin, she entered the smithy and started up the stairs. She was surprised to hear a man's voice speaking quietly, having anticipated that Cassandra would be alone in her room at this hour, reading or praying.

As she neared the top of the steps, an astonishing sight met her eyes. Cassandra's normally rustic quarters were lit with dozens of candles of all shapes and sizes. Cassandra sat on a rug in the centre of the room with her back to the stairs, enraptured. On a bench to the side of her was Varric, reading fervently from a book of poetry. Romantic poetry, Iris realised as she stood rooted to the spot, trying to comprehend what she was seeing and hearing.

With eyes like saucers, she regained enough self-awareness to retreat back down the stairs and out the door, leaning against the wall with her head in a whirl. “What?! What?!”, she mouthed to herself in shock.

Back upstairs, Cassandra sat up straighter as Iris departed. Varric stopped speaking.

“Did you...I thought I heard something,” the Seeker said.

“Oh that'll be the Inquisitor. Her head popped up over the railing a second ago and then she ran off.”

And just as Iris was gasping outside, Cassandra, too, yelped, “What?!”

…

She had to tell someone. No, she had to keep it a secret. Clearly, she wasn't meant to know. She wasn't even sure she did know. Iris fought the urge to pinch herself in case she was dreaming, or possibly in the Fade again.

Dorian. Dorian would know. No, he'd never stop teasing them, and then Cassandra would break his spine. Leliana, she was a spy; she probably already knew. No. Bull would definitely tell everyone. Josephine would either tut or start planning their wedding. Sera would carve a rude limerick about it in giant letters on the chapel roof.

Her legs took her to Cullen's office while her brain was otherwise engaged. Before he could say anything, she had shut and locked the door.

“CassandraandVarricaretogetherinherroomandhe'sreadingherpoetry. _Together_ -together.”

Cullen was mystified. “What?”

She tried again at a speed audible to the human ear. “Cassandra and Varric. Together. In her room. With candles, everywhere. He's reading her romantic poetry.”

This was even less sensible than the gibberish. “What?”

“I just went to see Cassandra and...and...so many candles. They _have_ been acting strangely lately.”

“So Varric is in Seeker Cassandra's room, reading her poetry? Wait, strangely how? They seemed to be getting along fine when we were at the Temple of Dumat.”

She nodded dramatically. “Exactly! They were _getting along_! They weren't teasing each other. As much, anyway.”

Cullen blinked at the Inquisitor. “Well. I hope they don't burn the smithy down.”

Now it was Iris' turn to be confused. “What?”

“You said they had a lot of candles lit. That can be dangerous.” Cullen was not unromantic, but he maintained a healthy apprehension around fire.

“I just can't believe it. But I think it could be good for them both. Do you?”

Cullen shot her a meaningful smile. “Well, I can hardly say no, can I? We've certainly...at least, I think...well, it hasn't done us any harm.”

That it hadn't. Finding each other had helped both of them to remain strong when all seemed lost.

Iris grew pensive for a moment. “I didn't know it could be like this,” she admitted. “Sometimes it almost frightens me. I thought...I thought falling in love was only for children, the way it felt then. I thought that it just changed as you got older, that it wasn't supposed to feel like that any more. You just...find someone you can live with, or someone your parents like, and make the best of it. I thought love was only like this in stories.” He leaned in to kiss her just below the ear and she sighed quietly.

Cullen's thoughts went to a small velvet-lined box in his trunk, acquired at the goldsmith in Val Royeaux. Its treasured contents were awaiting the proper moment to make an appearance, although Cullen found himself checking the box most nights before he went to sleep. As soon as Corypheus was defeated, he would write to Lord and Lady Trevelyan and speak to Iris. He had already begun drafting the letter and thinking about what he would say.

“When all this started, I didn't think of much more than our survival. But now...once this is over, I won't want to move on. Not from you.” Cullen's voice dropped, and he paced behind the desk. “I don't know if you've thought about...what you...”

She moved next to him, half-sitting on the desk. “Cullen...of course I want to be with you. Always.” As she brought her hand up to his cheek, she moved back too far, knocking a vial of ink to the floor. Iris looked down ruefully, starting to apologise.

Cullen did not care about the ink pot. With a shake of his head, he swept the remaining miscellany off the desk in a single motion, urging her backward with his body. Careful not to crush her, he drew above her, throwing off his gauntlets to caress her face with his hands. Muscle memory alone deftly loosed the buckles on his pauldrons, his cuirass, anything standing between the touch of his skin on hers. The state of the smithy, and Cullen's desk, would wait for another time.

…

“No...no...leave me!”

Iris awoke before dawn, roused by Cullen's fevered shouts. One of his nightmares; worse without lyrium. While he slept he was back in the Circle, revisiting the depredations visited on him by demons and abominations. Iris felt another pang of guilt. If only she could have done something for him while she was in the Fade, to stop these memories haunting him night after night. She ran her hand along his chest.

Cullen woke with a start, panicked, falling back onto his pillow as his consciousness returned. “Did I wake you? I'm sorry.”

“It's all right, Cullen.” She snuggled back into his welcoming arms. “Are you OK?”

“Yes,” he said, stroking her hair. “You don't...I don't want you to worry about me. You have so much on your mind already.”

Iris kissed his shoulder. “Cullen, I love you. I'm allowed to worry about you a little. Or are you pretending you don't worry about me when I'm away?”

He laughed softly, returning the kiss to her brow. “All right. We're allowed to worry. But we should probably both try to worry less. Now, go back to sleep.”

“You first,” she replied muzzily, muffled against his chest. She felt his smile against her temple, and then drowsiness claimed them both once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Inspired by [this painting](http://greendelle.tumblr.com/post/106951382816/its-getting-hot-in-here-shiva-but-not-hot) by the amazing Greendelle  
> 


	10. Chapter 10

It was a cool, cloudy evening when Skyhold came into view at last. The trip from the Hissing Wastes was a long one, even at a rather strenuous pace on horseback. The Inquisitor and her primary scouting force had been out in the desert for weeks, delving through buried dwarven ruins to find whatever artifact Corypheus sought before the Venatori could. Worse still, the blistering daytime heat forced them to do most of their work at night. The moon provided nearly enough light most days, but it was still dark enough to lure out the hideous venomous spiders that seemed to infest the whole thankless region. Iris spurred her horse into a faster walk, eager to get past the inevitable queue of people clamouring for her attention and back to her quarters for a bath and a sleep in a proper bed.

“Iris!”

As she reached the gate, dismounting to lead her horse back to the stables, she thought she heard a woman's voice call to her by her given name. But no one called her that anymore, except Cullen when they were alone; it was always 'Inquisitor' or 'Herald' or 'Your Worship.' She looked around, befuddled.

“It is her! Iris!”

Now it was a man's voice, and an oddly familiar one at that. Her eye was drawn upwards, to two figures at the high wall, waving and hurrying down the stairs.

She dropped the reins and stumbled towards the steps. It was unquestionably her cousins and oldest friends, although she could not fathom how or why. “CeCe?! Eoin?! How... what... what are you...?”

Any further words were swallowed in the enthusiastic hugs she received from both of them simultaneously. Behind them, Cullen followed them down, smiling slightly but keeping his distance for now.

“It feels like it has been years,” she said quietly, faltering. She prised herself away. “Is everything all right? What has happened? Mother and Father and Auntie and -”

“They're fine, Iris. Everyone is fine.”

“Then why -”

Celia's smile faded slightly. “Oh. Well, the Mother...with all the talks about who will succeed Justinia as Divine, and what the Inquisition is doing, and the mages...the Revered Mother felt it might be best if I were to serve elsewhere.” Diplomatically stated, but Iris understood: as family to the heretical Herald of Andraste, ally of the mages, Celia was no longer welcome at the Starkhaven Chantry.

“Oh CeCe, I'm so sorry. Could my father not have spoken to someone? Not that I am not glad to see you, but I don't...I don't want to make things worse for you.” Iris had vainly hoped that her family would escape much backlash from her actions.

“Well, my father spoke to your father, but they decided it might be best to see how we could support the Inquisition. I know some of the clerics think it is heresy, but...I know you would not blaspheme.”

Iris sighed. With the influence the Inquisition had amassed, and the fact that the Trevelyan family was already tied to it, joining formally was the politically expedient move. “And I suppose they felt you could check up on me, since I haven't written often enough.”

“Father wrote to your ambassador to ask about where I could be of use.”

Cullen stepped in. “The request arrived while you were in Emprise du Lion. You had only just left, and we agreed it was best to move quickly. More pilgrims arrive at Skyhold every week. There seemed no harm in bringing her here to assist Mother Giselle.”

“Mother and Father had already decided that Eoin should accompany me so that I would not be alone. They were very relieved when the Commander offered to send soldiers to protect us on the road.”

“You knew they were coming? I've had no word at all!”

“You went directly to the Wastes, Inquisitor. It seemed safest to keep communication to a minimum, lest messages be intercepted.”

Iris looked pointedly at Cullen. “You mean you wanted it to be a surprise.” His only reply was one of his half-smiles.

Celia and Eoin exchanged a look. “What?” Iris asked.

They looked at her, and at Cullen. “Your mother suspected that you and Commander Rutherford -” Eoin blurted.

“-perhaps had an understanding,” Celia concluded. She smiled. “It seems she was right.”

Iris reddened. “The Commander is an asset to the Inquisition. He is responsible for managing all the soldiers and Templars under our banner and his experience has been invaluable. I could not have managed without him,” she declared in her coolest tone.

Iris was a terrible liar, and utterly transparent to her cousins. They giggled. “You said 'I', not 'we',” Celia pointed out.

Cullen looked away and rubbed his neck.

“So you _are_ together? Are you pregnant?!”

“Eoin!” “No, I, no.” CeCe squealed.

“Eoin. CeCe. You are being extremely-”

“Impertinent?” Cullen finished, a slight twinkle in his eye. Iris could only purse her lips at that; Cullen had often teased her about the unsubtle enquiries she made when first they met.

“We are not having this conversation here,” Iris said authoritatively, prodding her cousins towards her private quarters.

Eoin drew himself up to his full height – still a good five inches shorter, and considerably scrawnier, than Cullen – and looked the Commander squarely in the eye.

“See that you behave properly towards our Iris, messere. I would not want to have to do to you what we did to the Marquess of Ansburg's son.”

Iris bit her lip. “I'd forgotten about that. I'm surprised you even remember! You were so little.”

Eoin bristled.

“What's this?” Cullen queried.

“Oh it was years ago,” Celia explained. Emma was seventeen or eighteen, and he started...”

“...making a nuisance of himself around her,” Iris finished scornfully. He would insist on dancing with her all evening, and he would make innuendos at her and try to, to grab her.”

“She was terribly frightened of him,” Celia added, “but she didn't want to cause an incident.”

“Finally one Summerday he went too far, and she slapped him,” Iris said. “It was a scandal, of course, but he'd developed a rather sordid reputation by then and the family bore us no ill will.”

The three siblings exchanged an impish smile, one which had instilled countless dread in their parents. “What aren't you telling me?” Cullen queried.

They smirked again. “Well...we were only young then, so we couldn't do much,” Iris explained. “But when he was storming out after the Duke had scolded him, we,” - more smirking - “we threw rocks at him from the balcony.”

“What?!”

“Not big rocks,” Celia clarified hastily. “Gravel, really. I don't even think we hit him more than once or twice.”

“It was Iris' idea,” Eoin provided helpfully.

“Oh. I see. Well...good.” Cullen did not recall ever meeting the Marquess of Ansburg or his family while he was in the Free Marches, but the image of a boorish noble being pelted with pebbles by mischievous Trevelyan scamps was rather satisfying. In any case, Cullen took a particularly dim view of anyone found to be importuning a young lady or visiting unwanted attentions on someone. Any of his soldiers caught in such an act was summarily thrashed and sent back to his or her family in disgrace. Mercifully, and in no small part thanks to his uncompromising position on the matter, it had not happened often.

“Now, I believe the Inquisitor needs rest. She has only just returned, after all. You may speak to her again in the morning.”

All three Trevelyans turned pleadingly to Cullen with such identical expressions and whimpers that he had to stifle a snorting laugh.

“I would be remiss in my duty if I did not look after your well-being, Inquisitor,” Cullen said softly. “Lady Celia and Lord Eoin have been settled in quarters in the main building, in the guest wing. Ambassador Montilyet has seen to everything,” he assured her.

At the mention of Josephine's name, Eoin's face took on an all too familiar expression. Her cousin was prone to becoming infatuated with every charming young lady he met. Somehow the thought had not occurred to Iris before, but as she considered it, she was not at all surprised that Eoin was attracted to the lovely and capable ambassador. His parents would no doubt be delighted to encourage such a match.

“Tomorrow, you two will inform me what has been going on while I have been away. I can see there are things to tell.”

“We shall have questions too! I shall need to hear more about your handsome Commander,” Celia smiled.

Cullen took his leave from the Trevelyans and walked back to his quarters. Seeing Iris interact with her family had reminded him of his own, and of things he had put off far too long. Drawing out a fresh sheet of parchment, he inked his quill and began to write.

…

The Inquisition's incursion into the Arbor Wilds had been a success. Their army had routed the bulk of Corypheus' remaining forces, and Iris had captured his general, Samson. Samson's red lyrium armour was rendered useless by a special rune Dagna had forged with the salvaged remains of Maddox' tools, and the ex-Templar was now subject to the same degeneration from the red lyrium as his soldiers had been. The Inquisitor had also witnessed Corypheus' horrifying method of survival first-hand: should his body be destroyed, the darkspawn's soul would simply reincarnate in the body of one of his corrupted minions nearby.

At the Temple of Mythal, the Inquisitor had met a group of ancient elven sentinels who had guarded the Temple, and the Vir'abelasan - the Well of Sorrows – within for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. Their lives were maintained in some form of stasis, waking only when the safety of the Temple was threatened.

The waters of the Well itself contained the shared knowledge of all the servants of Mythal who had gone before. Abelas sought to destroy the Well rather than see its power fall into the hands of the unworthy; power whose price was eternal bondage to the will of Mythal. In the end, Morrigan had drunk from the Well, granting her understanding of Corypheus' soul transference, and just in time. Almost as soon as the waters of the Well had disappeared, Corypheus entered the inner sanctum, and the Inquisitor and her friends survived only by escaping through the now-active eluvian behind it.

Shortly thereafter, Morrigan had learned that the geas laid on her by the Well was no idle threat. Mythal still lived, her essence carried in the body of Morrigan's own mother, Flemeth, the notorious Witch of the Wilds. Iris would have considered that most daughters carried some compulsion to heed their mother's will, but Morrigan's situation was truly unenviable. For the time being, however, Flemeth did not seem inclined to exact any orders on her daughter.

Nonetheless, the Well had provided Morrigan with crucial information. Corypheus' ability to cheat death was tied to the high dragon he had corrupted with red lyrium. Much of the magister's power was invested in the dragon, and if it were to be defeated, Corypheus would no longer be able to revive in another body. His death would at last be permanent. Now all that remained was for the Inquisition to find a power capable of challenging and defeating Corypheus' dragon, which Morrigan was confident should could manage.

Dorian had been doing some research on his own, trying to seek out Corypheus' weaknesses and lineage. The revelations at the Temple of Mythal had amazed him as well, and he was revisiting as much Tevinter history as he could.

When Dorian had first arrived at Skyhold he had complained, loudly, about the dearth of useful books in the library. Feeling it was practical to broaden the Inquisition's arsenal of knowledge, and wanting to do something thoughtful for the man who had become her dearest friend, Iris had asked Varric to put her in touch with his publisher. From there, feelers had been put out through various channels, legitimate or otherwise, searching for any useful or interesting tomes that could be imported from across Thedas. It had not been easy to procure Imperial writings, so much of Tevinter work being controversial or outright anathema in the southern realms, but eventually some books had begun to arrive.

Iris found Dorian poring over one such volume now. Engrossed as he was, he did not seem as pleased with the _Liberalum_ as she had hoped. He noted her arrival with a pensive look.

“Is it not what you wanted? The book, I mean.”

“Not at all. It's perfect, in fact. Wherever did you manage to get it?”

“I have my sources,” she smiled. “Being the Inquisitor has some advantages, it seems, including finding books to meet your rather exacting standards.”

Dorian looked at Iris with unvarnished affection. “You are too good to me, Inquisitor. What I was thinking of was not to do with the book. I should go back, shouldn't I? To Tevinter, when all of this is over. Assuming I'm still alive, that is. For all my grumbling about how things are back home, I haven't done a thing about it.

“That elf at the Temple – Abelas – he said that the Imperium weren't the ones who destroyed Arlathan. That's unheard of back in Tevinter, and people there would never want to accept it. The great Tevinter Imperium, not the conquerors of the immortal elves at all, no better than mere scavengers of a dead civilisation? But we need to confront our past, the truth of it, the truth of the precious legacy that hangs over us. You've changed minds here; why shouldn't I?”

Iris looked at her friend with sympathy. She had expected that he would want to return to his homeland someday, but she selfishly dreaded the separation. She would miss him terribly, and Tevinter was so far away.

“You are doing something, Dorian. You came here to help. You're fighting with us to save everything, including Tevinter.”

“Thank you for saying that. I want to do more, however. Stopping Corypheus won't save Tevinter from itself.” He looked at her sharply. “This is your fault, you know. You're too inspirational. You're shaping the world; how could I aspire to do any less? I would do anything to prove Tevinter can be better than what it has been, than what it is now.”

“I understand.”

“Now now, don't look so dejected. I'm not going yet, after all. Unless threatening to leave will earn me more good books.”

With a laugh and a shake of her head, she left for the garden. No matter how much elfroot she gathered, the alchemists always seemed to require more. The chapel door was open, and she saw Cullen within, kneeling before the shrine to Andraste. Abandoning the herbs, she knelt next to him, joining in the prayer.

As the verse was finished, he turned to her. “A prayer for all those we have lost, and those I am afraid to lose.”

Once again Iris was reminded how much Cullen cared about his charges. He valued the soldiers under his command, and the sacrifices they chose to make. In a world where the lives of young men and women were so often thrown away for the aggrandizement of nobles and the whims of kings, this was a rare gift.

“I'm frightened too. I wish it didn't need to be this way, but...someone has to stop Corypheus, and it seems that the Maker has left it to me.”

“You can stop him. You will. But...Andraste preserve me, to think I must send you to him...”

“No, Cullen. You are not sending me. I will go because I choose to go. If I am to be but the thorn in Corypheus' side, then I shall be a thorn. But once this is over, when Corypheus succeeds or fails...what if...the Maker may have no further need of me.”

He drew her in a fierce embrace. “Whatever happens, you _will_ come back.”

Iris was not so certain, but she could not bear to hurt or frighten him more. After a moment, she managed, “Is that an order, Commander?”

“No, but as your advisor I strongly recommend it.”

She laughed tremulously, and said no more; but when they finally parted, his collar was damp with her tears.


	11. Chapter 11

The Inquisitor and her advisors stood in the war room, discussing plans for the final assault against Corypheus. It was unclear where he would go next, having failed to secure the eluvian. As suggestions were mooted, Iris felt an all-too-familiar pain in her marked hand, echoed by the crackling of distant lightning.

“The Valley of Sacred Ashes...he's returned.” Iris stared at her hand as though she had never seen it before.

“One last attempt to reopen the Breach, it seems. He is desperate,” Morrigan noted.

Cullen fought to maintain his composure, his words sombre but steady. “We have no soldiers to send with you, Inquisitor. We must wait for our forces to return from the Arbor Wilds.”

She shook her head. “There isn't time. I must go now, or else the Breach could swallow the world.” She looked resigned and determined, but he knew her too well not to see the fear twisting in her eyes. “Well, you all know what to do. Thank you all for your support. If we succeed, it is thanks to all your combined efforts. And if we fail, it will not have been for lack of trying. Know that you have all done your best.”

Cullen's hands clenched into tight, shaking fists. She was right. Corypheus was already at the Breach, and delay would spell doom. To just watch her walk out of Skyhold to face this...monster...he could barely stand. She met his eyes one last time, trying to silently convey all her love and admiration in a look of goodbye; then nodded meekly to Leliana and Josephine as she and Morrigan left to prepare.

Cullen gripped the edge of the war table, face and knuckles white with strain. He knew he should be ashamed of showing weakness when Iris herself did not. It was not as though he had no faith in her. But the thought of living without her was more than he could bear, and in this moment of truth unexpectedly arrived, he was afraid.

As the wicket door of the council room creaked shut, Leliana softly placed a hand on his. He was too overwrought to speak or object, and in truth, he needed the comfort. “I will be waiting for reports in the rookery if you need anything, Commander,” she said gently. Cullen nodded shakily. With a deep breath and a silent prayer he marshalled his strength, and returned to work.

Some time later there was a quiet knock at his door. “Come in.”

Celia entered. “Lady Celia,” he said, motioning for her to sit down. “Or is it Sister Celia? I'm afraid I have no news to give you. Sister Leliana will likely be the first to -”

“Oh, thank you Commander. I'm sorry, I did not mean...only, Eoin and I,” she motioned to her brother, who was lurking hesitantly at the doorway, “we thought perhaps...”

“We feel useless here,” he lamented. “We're just in the way, but...”

“...but it is so hard to just wait,” his sister finished. “We thought perhaps we would join the Mother for some prayers in the chapel, and I wondered if you might wish to accompany us. I understand you may be busy, however.”

Cullen paused. He should continue checking the contingency plans, finish writing the redirection orders for troops returning to Skyhold, confirm that guard rotations were on high alert, but his thoughts were scattered. He had tried to distract himself with constructive tasks, but as the hours passed he struggled to carry on. His hands, filled with papers dropped to the desk. “Thank you, Sister, that is a kind offer. I think perhaps I shall.”

As they walked, Celia spoke quietly to him. She was not very like her cousin in appearance, but he saw the same kindness in her.

“Please, you must call me CeCe. All my family do, and it seems you will be family soon as well.”

“I sincerely hope so. I mean, that is my intention, should...provided...with, with your aunt and uncle's blessing...”

Celia smiled. “I shouldn't worry about that, Commander. Iris does not say, but I know this has been difficult for her. She could never have imagined this kind of responsibility. Even so, when she is with you, she is happier than I think I have ever seen her. I can see that you both care for each other very much, and very well.”

A large crowd had gathered in the tiny chapel, spilling out into the garden adjacent. Mother Giselle and Sister Celia led the assembly in verses from the Chant of Light, and appropriate songs and hymns. Cullen took comfort in the familiar words and prayers, even as his mind strayed to wonder how the battle progressed.

There were sudden gasps and consternation in the courtyard. “The temple! It is flying!”

The people gathered in the garden were craning their necks in alarm, and those inside the chapel swarmed out to see. Indeed, the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes were now floating perilously in the air just below the Breach. Magic and dragon-breath flashed in the sky as all below watched to see whether this scene marked the moment of their triumph or the end of the world.

…

She was as ready as she could be. She was clad in the dragon-scale armour Harritt and Dagna had crafted for her, strengthened with the finest metals and lined in enchanted velvet. At her back were her two prized blades, Wit and Wisdom, black and golden, whose forging she had overseen herself.

On one of her visits to Val Royeaux, Iris had taken Cullen's lucky coin to a jeweller to have it set into a locket, to keep it safe with her so she could one day return it. She took it out now, and ran a fingertip over the stamping, worn with time.

Her inner circle was gathered nearby. All of them had been drawn to the Inquisition because they didn't belong anywhere else, to some degree or another. Too brash, too different, too frightened, too ambitious. Even Iris, who had previously lived a fairly ordinary life, had never been sure what she was meant to do, who she was meant to be. Together, they'd created something extraordinary, and established a place for themselves with each other. Corypheus threatened to take all that away, along with everything else that mattered.

Inquisitor or no, Iris was never at ease with pretty speeches. Quietly, she addressed the assembled team. “You are my dearest friends. It...it has been my honour, my privilege and my joy to work alongside you all these months.” She turned to begin the final approach, tucking the locket away under her armour. “Let us finish what we have started.” As she looked up, her face was calm, but a cold, fell light burned in her eyes. Varric and Dorian had jokingly placed a wager on their success, with Dorian putting their odds of victory at three to one against. Right now, Iris could only pray her chances were as good as that.

_This is it_ , Varric thought to himself. _This must be how it felt to follow Andraste._ Hawke was the best friend Varric ever had, the most extraordinary woman he had ever known, and she certainly had a way of inspiring people to act. But this, this was something else entirely. Even if she couldn't believe it herself, the Inquisitor was as near to a holy figure as anything he'd seen in his life. He was – they were all walking to what should be death, by choice, because she was leading them. It defied belief and all his instincts, and yet he was certain beyond certainty that this was where he should be.

Quietly, almost without realising it, he began to sing. “Bare your blade, and raise it high...”

“...stand your ground, the dawn will come.” Cassandra joined in almost immediately, and the voices of the rest entered the refrain shortly thereafter. In this moment there were no more jokes, no subtle glances, no teasing conversation. All walked alone with their thoughts, but joined by a bond stronger than blood or faith or even fear; the love of comrades-in-arms whose lives are in each others' hands, and very possibly nearing their end.

They found Corypheus at what had been the base of the great stairs up to the Temple. The Inquisitor's voice rang out a challenge, high and clear above the din of soldiers doing battle with demons.

“Corypheus!”

“Let us end this!”

With a gesture, he tore the Temple from its foundations, lifting it into the sky. Walls and towers splintered off, suspended in the air. Iris caught a last glimpse of the forward troops on the ground as she fell to her knees on the unsteady rock. At last their ascent halted, and the monster spoke once again.

“You are nothing. A thief. By what right do you claim to oppose me? Do you still cling to the misguided belief that your absent Maker will save you, that you are his chosen, that you are anything more than a nuisance, unworthy of godhood?”

Iris spoke quietly. “No. I will not claim to be the instrument of the Maker or to know His will. I oppose you because accident or no, I am the only one who can. Because I can, and because I will it. Because there are people in this world that I love, and people with no one to love them, and people for whom love is not enough to protect them; and if I can stop you harming them, then I will try. That will have to be enough.” As she spoke, her hand went to the locket unconsciously.

_Nemesis_ , Dorian had said; an old word, pre-dating even Tevene. Corypheus was the Inquisition's nemesis, indubitably. She was nothing, he alleged, but his words betrayed his intent. She had led the Inquisition to thwart him at every turn. He wasted time bandying words with her now. Whatever he may claim, Iris had become his nemesis as well. She rather liked the sound of that.

Now the fear was gone, burned away in a cold flame of righteous anger. Corypheus' gaze was pure malevolence, but Iris did not falter. She stepped forward and met his eyes unblinkingly, scorn and fury written on her face. In any other circumstances, Dorian might have wept with pride to see the courage of his oft-hesitant friend.

In all the time they had known her, Cassandra realised, they had never seen Iris angry. Peeved, perhaps; unhappy, certainly; but in general, she possessed an even-tempered nature the irascible Seeker could only envy. The Inquisitor was angry now. She let out a scream filled with every ounce of frustration, sorrow and rage she had felt over the last year, saturated with every drop of resentment, every no-win situation, every lesser evil, every pang of guilt for every innocent life lost through action or inaction.

As her call echoed across the ruins, the parties sprang into action. In the teams on the flanks the archers and mages hailed fire at the dragon whenever its clash with Morrigan, herself in the form of a dragon, drew it near enough to reach. Meanwhile, the close-combat fighters dealt with any demons summoned by Corypheus or escaping the Breach.

In the centre with the Inquisitor were Cassandra, Varric and Dorian, who had spent so many months fighting together that their movements in battle were expertly choreographed. Cassandra was a bulwark, harrying Corypheus with her shield and axe and using her abilities as a Seeker to dampen and nullify the magister's spells. Dorian applied beneficial and protective spells on his friends in between throwing gouts of fire at Corypheus, and Varric sprang to and fro with surprising agility, laying down traps and discharging bolts from Bianca with practised aim. Amidst it all, Iris danced a deadly _pas de deux_ to the melody of her humming daggers, darting in with precise strikes and vanishing into smoke and misdirection, keeping the darkspawn from focusing on her for any length of time. No clockwork of her father's had ever run as smoothly.

Corypheus was weakening. He retreated to higher ground, making the Inquisitor chase after him while he threw corrupting spells from afar. High above, Morrigan and the red lyrium dragon grappled frantically, each dealing the other deep wounds. They plummeted to the ruins below and Morrigan returned to her human form, bleeding heavily. The dragon staggered to its feet, no longer able to fly.

The Inquisition struck hard, harrying the dragon from all sides. It was enough, and with a final blow, Iris severed the great veins in its throat. With a last twitch of its tail, the hideous beast lay still. The power Corypheus had placed in the dragon surged back to him, reinvigorating him; but now he had no more second chances. He must succeed here, or fall forever.

Cassandra charged up the stairs to Corypheus without hesitation. Again and again Wit and Wisdom cut into his body, bolts from Bianca piercing his twisted flesh, engulfed in flames from Dorian's magic. At last he could no longer control the power of the orb. He fell back, mortally wounded, calling in vain to Dumat and the rest of the old gods.

Iris extended her hand, crackling with energy as she drew the elven orb away from him. Hurling the orb to the heavens, she channelled all of her strength at the Breach. A blinding flash, a wave of sound and pressure, and then the sky was clear at last. The Breach was mended. The orb fell to Iris' feet, its power depleted.

Now she turned back to Corypheus, the Anchor aimed at his heart. Iris poured the energy of the mark into Corypheus' body itself, opening a Fade rift inside him. There was no pity in her eyes as she tore him asunder, his body and soul fragmenting, imploding into the Fade.

Any celebration was halted abruptly, however. Bereft of any magic to sustain them, the walls and ruins beneath the Breach began to crumble. People scattered, clutching for anything solid to brace themselves, fleeing from toppling debris. Struggling to keep her balance as the flagstones crashed onto the slopes of the mountain, Iris looked up to see a large section of a tower collapsing on top of her. There was a deafening crunch and a shower of shrapnel, and finally a stillness fell, broken only by the diminishing echoes of settling rubble.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra shouted as she ran towards the spot. The clearing dust revealed a prone figure crumpled on the stone. _Shit_ , Varric thought. _Why do the heroes always have to..._

“She's breathing. Thank the Maker!”

Iris stirred, sitting up gingerly, concussed and aching. Finally she spoke.

“Pay up, Dorian.” She turned to face the mage with a wry smile, filthy and scraped and still out of breath. And this time he did cry, but they were all happy tears.

Iris' smile faded when she noticed Solas picking up the pieces of the shattered orb, crestfallen. Getting shakily to her feet, she approached him.

“I'm sorry Solas, I know you wanted to try to save the orb.”

“It is not your fault, Inquisitor,” he said, staring sadly at the shards in his hand.

“At least Corypheus is defeated.”

Solas' eyes remained fixed on the remains of the artifact. “Inquisitor. It was not meant to happen this way. No matter what happens, know that you will always have my respect.”

Still dazed, Iris struggled to make sense of his words. The rest of the party had gathered, and everyone seemed to be alive, even Morrigan. When Iris turned back, Solas had vanished.

She was too tired to figure it out now. After so many months of fighting, Corypheus was defeated and the Breach was sealed. It was time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 3/6/15: I have changed one line in this chapter. The more I have thought about it the more convinced I have become that it perpetuated too much of a 'sassy gay friend' stereotype for Dorian, so I've tried to improve it. I deliberately tried to avoid making him into a caricature or a stereotype or reducing him to just a 'gossip about romance' foil for Iris - e.g. Cole's conversation with Varric in chapter 7 was initially going to be Dorian since he was a more prominent character than Cole, but I felt that it made no sense for a guy who had little to no experience with romantic relationships and in fact had a conflicted history with them to be having that conversation. (Cole doesn't either, admittedly, but he works on slightly different parameters to Dorian, or anybody else for that matter.) 
> 
> Unfortunately, I don't think I succeeded very well in a lot of cases and so there are things I'm unhappy with, on reflection. I've therefore tried to remove what felt like the most egregious instance to mitigate any kind of harm I may have done; there is another chapter I may edit as well in future. 
> 
> I apologise for any confusion this edit may cause, and more importantly for any hurt or offense caused by my characterisation of Dorian. No excuses, just mea culpa. I'll try to do better in future.


	12. Chapter 12

Back at Skyhold, the waiting crowd had burst into cheers as the Breach closed, the explosion having been visible for hundreds of miles. Cullen could only hold his breath until the first ravens returned with definitive word from the Temple, however, the birds able to travel over the peaks much more quickly than could a horse. At last reports came: the Inquisitor was alive and unharmed. Iris was coming home.

The Commander virtually danced with impatience as he waited for the Inquisitor to come into view. As shouts of victory and approbation arose along the walls, he felt his pulse race. The triumphant heroes had returned, marching slowly but steadily through the wide portcullis gate, jubilant but subdued. Cullen saw only Iris, feeling suddenly dizzy with relief. Their eyes locked, her gaze never leaving his face, lit with sheer joy and adoration. She fought the urge to sprint ahead up the stairs and into his waiting arms.

Making her way to the keep, she stood before her advisors, who bowed in obeisance. Cullen stepped forward and folded her in a doting embrace. Iris lived an eternity in that moment, oblivious to anything but thankfulness and love. They walked together hand-in-hand to acknowledge the exulting crowd below.

As the Inquisitor and her advisors turned to enter the keep, Leliana drew her aside. Solas' absence had not gone unnoticed, but her agents had found no trace of him. Something had clearly upset him, something more than the loss of the orb, but Solas had never been particularly forthright about his motivations. Leliana promised to keep searching for any trace of Solas, then left the Inquisitor to rest.

Iris returned to Cullen's side, more than ready to return to her chamber. As soon as they were out of sight of the main hall, he swept her into his arms, just as he had done so many months ago after Haven was destroyed.

“Cullen, I'm fine, I can walk,” she assured him, but he would not be dissuaded.

“You have served us all, Inquisitor. Allow me this.” He carried her all the way to her quarters, where he had asked for a bath to be drawn. He undressed her reverentially, laying each garment aside with care, every touch a thankful caress. Gently, languidly he settled her in the balmy water, near to the fireplace. Stripping to the waist, he laved the dust and blood from her skin with a soft sponge and tender hands, wordlessly massaging her muscles and strewing her with kisses. Carefully he washed her hair, smoothing out the knots with attentive fingers. Her breathing slowed as she savoured this moment of stillness, overwhelmed with relief and the warmth of Cullen's devotion, soaking in the sensuousness of his touch.

When she was clean, he dried her off and wrapped her in a robe, holding her close and moving to the bed. They lay together in blissful silence, glad of each other's company, until at last Iris fell asleep in his arms. Cullen would not sleep at all that night; he did not want to miss a single moment of holding her, stroking her hair, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she slept against him. His Inquisitor, his Iris, his lioness; and now he could finally dare to hope, his wife.

…

In the days to come, stories of the Inquisitor's heroism would spread across Thedas, every witness with the same awestruck tone. Cullen would beg Varric to tell the tale again and again, not wanting a single detail to escape his memory. It was probably for the best that he had not been present, lest his heart have burst on the spot, but everything he heard made him wish he could have seen her, and every last triviality seemed insufficient to picture. “I didn't have a sodding pen with me, Curly,” Varric finally told him, exasperated. “Harding tells the story down at the Herald's Rest at least once a night, go listen to her version.”

Josephine was delighted to arrange a celebratory banquet for the key members of the Inquisition. Their victory was not the only thing they were celebrating, as it happened. Leliana had been chosen to succeed Justinia as the next Divine, and she would soon be leaving for Val Royeaux to take up her place on the Sunburst Throne. Iris would be sorry to lose her spymaster, but she would not deny Sister Nightingale her destiny. Over the course of the last year she had watched Leliana come to terms with the death of her friend, softening and changing from a cold, cynical woman frozen with grief and bitterness to someone who once more embraced hope and the transformative love of the Maker for all. It seemed fitting that her path which had begun so many years ago in Lothering would eventually lead her to the pinnacle of the Chantry. Leliana's plans for the Chantry were revolutionary, but Iris had faith that people would embrace her vision for an institution where changes were long overdue.

There was more good news for the Inquisitor as well. Earlier that day, Cullen had invited Iris into the garden for a game of chess. When she arrived, the courtyard was surprisingly quiet, and Cullen was massaging his neck as nervously as he had ever done. In the place on the board where her queen should have been she found a small box. Inside was a beautiful golden gimmal ring, two interlocking bands with an amethyst heart. On a scrap of paper were these words: I am not a king, but I would feel like one if you will be my queen and my wife.

Chess pieces went flying as Iris leapt up, box in hand, to throw herself in Cullen's arms, upsetting the table in the process. As her answer was an emphatic yes, however, Cullen did not care a whit for the table. The rings were put on and the box returned to Cullen's pocket, and they stood oblivious to the world for a long while.

The feast was now well under way. Iris indulged on an obscene amount of little fancy cakes from Orlais, and Bull broke open some of his potent Maraas-Lok. Toasts and tributes were made to honour the fallen, all those who had given their lives to help seal the Breach. Tomorrow the Inquisition would need to refocus, with decisions to be made about where and how to utilise the power and momentum it had assembled to best effect. For now, however, it was a time for happiness, and a time for rest.

Josephine approached Iris and Cullen. “I hear that congratulations are in order, Inquisitor, Commander. Would you allow me to handle the arrangements for the ceremony and banquet? I am sure we can arrange for Lady Leliana to hold the wedding at the Grand Cathedral once she has -”

“No!” Iris and Cullen shouted in unison, startling Josephine.

“Sorry,” Iris added, “it's just that we don't want it to be a political event. We want it to be a small ceremony, just for us.”

“Oh but Inquisitor, so many people will want to be at your wedding! It would be impolitic to snub our allies after all they have contributed. Perhaps you would consider two ceremonies? A smaller one here, which can remain something of a secret, and the an official wedding for all to celebrate?”

Iris turned to Cullen. “It will always be like this, won't it? Whatever I do will be political. Cullen, if you...I know you don't even care for nobles. If this is...if you don't want to choose this life, where everything -”

He stopped her with a kiss and a burning look. “It is a small price to pay. _You_ are worth _anything_ , my lioness.”

Josephine cleared her throat quietly. “Well then, it seems it is settled. I will get to work straight away on -”

Iris interrupted her friend with a laugh. “Tomorrow, Josephine. You can start tomorrow. Tonight, I want you to enjoy yourself.”

…

Epilogue

It had been three months since the wedding. Weddings, technically, although both bride and groom considered the first one to be the true ceremony. All of the Inquisition's inner circle and Iris and Cullen's immediate families had come to Skyhold, where Celia, now a Mother, performed the rites. Iris' wedding gown was much like the one she had worn the day after the ball at Halamshiral which had so enchanted her beloved. On this occasion, her hair was tied loosely at her neck and crowned with a wreath of violets; her hands filled with more violets, and the flowers whose name she bore. Cassandra and Dorian had been proud to serve as bridesmaid and groomsman, Dorian choosing to remain near his best friends for the time being. Both bride and groom were rather nervous about meeting each other's parents and siblings, but their devotion to each other had been obvious and undeniable even from the letters they had written.

In recognition of his service to the Inquisition (and to placate a few of Iris' more traditional relations) a coat of arms had been drawn up for Cullen: a lion _argent_ on a red field, representing himself and his military leadership. Above it, a green field for hope, displaying three fleur-de-lis – iris flowers – the central of which was golden. The accompanying motto he had chosen was 'The Dawn Will Come'.  2

The official service in Val Royeaux was a lavish affair, attended by every dignitary of note in Southern Thedas and as many nobles and hangers-on as could squeeze their way into the Cathedral. Cullen got more opportunities to practice his dancing as well, as Empress Celene insisted on throwing a ball in the couple's honour.

After the ceremonies and the feasting, Cullen had whisked Iris away to what remained of Honnleath. Iris had secured permission from King Alistair to purchase a small tract of land near Cullen's favourite lake. A cosy home had been built for them here, a place for them to retreat when their duties took them into southern Ferelden, or when they required some time to themselves. The village would rebuild, eventually, after its decimation during the Blight, and the pair would do what they could to assist.

Cullen and Iris coddled and pampered each other shamelessly. The stress of the Inquisition had wearied them both, and their honeymoon was exactly what they both needed to regain their health and strength. Now they had returned to Skyhold at last, ready to face whatever challenges the world may present, together.

Cullen stood behind Iris on the balcony of the room they now shared in the keep, watching the sunrise behind the white mountain peaks.

“So, Lady Inquisitor Iris Helena Trevelyan Rutherford, Herald of Andraste, She Who Asks Impertinent Questions,” he smiled by her ear. “What now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2: Heraldry:  
> Lion: Bravery, Strength, Ferocity, Valor  
> Fleur-de-lis/Iris: Faith, Wisdom, Friendship, Hope, Valor  
> Red: Military prowess  
> Green: Hope, Joy  
> White/Argent: Peace  
> See image [here](http://u2queenbee.deviantart.com/art/Rutherford-Heraldry-fictional-513759480)


End file.
